


Drinking the Mystletainn

by Insomniosa



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Challenge, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 00:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 293,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomniosa/pseuds/Insomniosa
Summary: Desert flower meets lion cub, in which one creates life through art while another takes it with his sword. Either praised or condemned, these are the pieces of their unlikely acquaintanceship.A 100-themechallengecontaining snippets of Ares and Lene. Rated M to be safe.





	1. Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely start.

He glued himself to his seat in silence, pensively watched as the barmaid put a glass before him.

 

His second glass contained beer just as before, and without further ado he grabbed the handle without hesitation, downing yet another generous gulp straight into his throat. The same burning sensation suddenly felt like a spark in the lungs, causing him to flinch. Softly grunting, he begrudgingly put down the glass and wiped his lips with a simple napkin on the table. His head was throbbing.

No, he was not sick. He was Ares the Black Knight, the feared wielder of a demon sword called the Mystletainn, the golden boy of Javarro's mercenary group. A young man in his prime who had never been beaten in a duel, and whispers followed him almost each time he was out in town. Some muttered his infamy, some others curiosity; it was not new to him having people questioning his background because "he carries the demeanor of those with nobility upbringing," some would say, and "he looks too neat to be a mercenary, right?"

 

And just like any other day, he would spare them a faint cynical smile. He had never really gave a thought regarding his appearance. After all what was the use of his life story as a person now that he worked in a bleak world where propriety, civility, or chivalry hardly ever graced his field? They did not actually care as long as he did the job. And he was well aware that his footsteps were colored with a pool of blood.

* * *

 

“Hard day?” the barmaid whispered into his ear. The typical sultry tone he by now had been accustomed to, something Javarro would tell about this heavenly pleasure called women. As he grew more mature and could call himself a man, he found out some women sought for his favor and were pretty open with it. On one occasion, a group of women called on him with the sweet, nectary voice with an invitation to heaven. On another, one would ran her finger in his beautiful gold-colored hair, mumbling all the praises and aspirations of what she would want to do with him. Ares grew up with Grahnye telling him about his father—someone he grew to idolize so much, and it was more than enough for him when his mother would mentioned how he looked so much like his father—beautiful blond locks just like his, gold-colored silks painted by the sun rays. And Ares, now a man with no mother waiting for an embrace to bury his face in, grabbed her back, burying his face in her breasts. He left some gold coins on her countertop, feeling sarcastically amused that apparently a walking dead man like him could still feel some pleasure.

Ares growled, trying to burn the haunting images of the skirmishes happened during the day. The mercenary group was tasked to guard a rich baron’s cargo. By the time they got there, the baron was busy filling up the boxes. Serenade of disgruntled folks accompanied the packaging moment. An elderly man came up beseeching the baron to not take everything he had because that one beautiful porcelain vase was all he had left from his late wife, which she commissioned in Chalphy, apparently. The late wife used to cook for Lord Sigurd, and had been his sole ray of hope to keep on living.

“Cook of _Sigurd,_ ” he muttered under his breath. “The thread of the good old life and the now it seems. Then...”

The old man looked in horror as he mercilessly snatched the vase and loaded it to the baron’s cargo. Javarro’s loud praises of his menacing prowess, curses of the old man’s son, greedy baron’s awe—everything actually fell into deaf ears as he danced with memories. His mother’s soft sobs every night. The letter informing Eldigan’s execution. Chalphy in the midst of chaos and Lord Sigurd, heir of Duke Vylon. And the growing hollowness in his mother’s bony face until he found out that his mother stopped waking up.

More gold for his pocket with Javarro’s delighted—somewhat frightened—praises. _You really are something, eh, Black Knight? Tonight we party. All the drinks you want. All the women you can touch. Tonight we own the world._

And he curtly conveyed his lack of interest. That did not bother Javarro. Ares the angry, Ares the murder machine, Ares with a demon sword, the Ares who dressed in black—the ace card of this feared sellswords group. After all, he was already dead long ago.

“Demonic heirloom sword, demonic swordsman. Perhaps his father too was just as much.”

Someone was busy recovering from a broken jaw that night. 

* * *

 

 “Go away,” he motioned to the barmaid with his hand.

“How cold,” she pouted, swaying suggestively so he could see the shape of her bottom from the peasant simple long gown she was wearing that night. His blood crawled—what was it, lust? Anger? Another cynical grin, for he could no longer differentiate anything anymore. He had been being quieter than usual ever since the bar incident some nights ago, and he had hoped there would be more jobs waiting for their group—if Mystletainn was fed, he was relieved. Albeit short-lived.

Ares looked around. _Time to leave,_ he glanced, standing up and softly kicking the wooden chair to make a room. If that would stop that barmaid to hover around him for today, then he wouldn’t regret it. If the barkeep informed him about jobs, the better. Javarro was half-dead drunk by then, snoring at the next table with a few other wretched souls. He got up to pick up the tabs, after all he didn’t really care where his money went as he was hardly ever interested in anything other than the basics.

Roaring laughter and clinked glass. Crude jokes. Unnecessary projection of power. And disgusting sound of someone vomitting over the floor.

Ares shoved his money at the barmaid, dragging his tired legs outside. Cool air wiped away some of his thoughts. It was quiet and serene, a totally different atmosphere. Chatters jolted him and he steadied his ground to get ready with the Mystletainn.

“Stupid world!” a particular shout eased his grip on the demon sword. A softer voice than his. Feminine. A woman’s voice. _Again?_ He thought, but kept it to himself.

He walked to see what it was, finding a green-haired girl kicking a pebble on the street. She wore elaborate costume—brilliant colors, tailored just fitting the wearer. Colorful scarves tied around her waist and arms, making her steps look like flowing rainbow. The girl muttered a thing or two about a wallet that fell into a pool of mud before crouching to get it. He didn’t hear her complaining about the dirtiness, yet her cussing the mud to be “you no-life bastard,” and “why don’t you perish or something,” somehow tickled him.

He simply crouched beside her, pulling the poor wallet out of misery. “It’s dirty,” he said curtly, taking everything inside and shoved it into her palms, dropping the wallet at her feet. From the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse of something shiny peeking out of her dress, and he couldn’t help but stared in astonishment. Both of them spent a good solid minute locking each other’s gaze—hers was a perplexed one, and his—he could not even describe it. She mumbled a thank you and he nodded, continuing his journey in the dark alley, the wind felt cooler than ever.

Ares did not realize he had another smirk on his face. Not sarcastic, just pure astonishment. The absurdity of today somehow gave him a schadenfreude—if not sadistic pleasure, somewhat. To see Javarro slumping over like a bag of meat, sans the bossy attitude against him; to win against himself as far as the barmaid concerned; and definitely teaching some fellow a lesson about insulting his late father. And in the midst of chaotic world and sinister atmosphere ravaging Jugdral, he found a festive woman carrying a _sword_ that just told off a pool of _mud_ like she would cuss a pathetic loser.

 

Ares grinned. And he _thought_ he was dead.


	2. Enthusiasm

"That's Ares the Black Knight. He wields this demon sword called the Mystletainn. I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley."

 

She stopped drinking for a second. That was all people mostly dubbed him with, and they would always talk about how frightening the Black Knight was, if not about his legendary demonic sword that never failed to cut down an opponent. And as always, all heads turned around when the bearer of the name walked in.

Ares, clad in black cape as always, did not waste his time for chits and chats—also as always. He would come, sitting himself in some particular table by then everyone else had been accustomed to, something they dubbed as the Black Knight’s Throne behind his back. Nobody knew why he picked this particular spot, and even if everyone was just as curious, they hesitated to ask  _him._ After all, he was Ares.

Some days Ares would come in for a quick drink by picking up his order at the counter. And usually, he and the older burly guy would talk to the barkeep, nodding in agreement in a way that signaled how this matter was only understandable for them before speeding off.

Or so they thought.

She  _knew._ She had always known. She was born when Jugdral was unstable—stories regarding a traitor called Sigurd who served his death sentence in Belhalla, the establishment of Arvis as Grannvale emperor and what seemed to be another chaotic phase for Jugdral followed because armed service became valued again once more... or perhaps she should have said  _more and more._ Growing up, she had learned a thing or two about fending herself off. Simply because nobody would; her mother left her when she was very young, and she had no idea what became of her father. And a world had been a cruel place for women, let alone a defenseless one like she was.

She, however, took pride at what she did. Although Darna was relatively a small region, people flocked in and out to grab some drinks and had a bite in this modest bar they shared together. Travelers heard of great dancing performances, and locals craved to experience more. She worked so hard to establish herself as a dancer, and nothing in her life had come cheaply, as she learned, for one had to pay for what one had in a way or another. For her, it would mean weary feet. Sometimes bleeding toes. Another time, unsavory watchers. Yet some others gave her titled audience; men and women with money in their pockets, ready to be spent generously and thrown at stage.

She was a no lady, and she did not bother to see if that her standing was with the others. Her hard life itself taught her that the poorer you were, the less choice you had. And sometimes, even dignity was too expensive and became meaningless in a world unknown to nobles shielded with family crests and wealth.

The Black Knight was unlike the kind of man she would picture before—she imagined him to be older, ruthless, and probably no different than a bandit. These people were only trying to make a living like her, but when she encountered him for the first time, she almost could not believe her eyes.

Definitely the rumor was true about the Black Knight’s dark charm—he was dangerous, they said, yet alluringly unforgettable. He was well-dressed despite the iconic black cape which was by then drilled into everyone’s mind, and he never disturbed people although his surroundings slowly turned into a messy... well,  _fuckfest_ would be best to describe it. She felt a hint of sarcasm there, knowing she wasn’t one to criticize someone else’s manner or word choice when her temper could get her really creative. And definitely she was a bit embarrassed upon learning that it was the Black Kknight she encountered some time ago, but another side of her had a simpler answer:  _fuck it._

_Because if men could not handle the women in their messy state, then why would you think they deserve you in your great state?_

Lene never really aimed to engage herself in Black Knight-watching just like everyone else. If the Black Knight came to see the dance like others, then he would be just another of her audience, and if there was more than that...

 _The Black Knight had better queue,_  she thought again, relishing the thoughts of the third flower bouquet she received back stage yesterday night. She did not  _hate_ the Black Knight either, but based on her experiences, men with power like that were monotone. Doing the job, yes—but then again, it was similar: kill or be killed, living the nights as a way to let go of personal sentiments because sunrise commanded them to be faceless with the jobs and forgetting their existence as a person.

By now, she had been seeing the Black Knight more often.  _They got rich,_ she thought again, reminiscing the uncanny sword rested over the Black Knight’s right shoulder with the wielder right next to it. They called him the Golden Boy because he had never been defeated; his sword drinking the blood of those declaring themselves his opponent. Yet she could not help but wondering, ‘golden boy’ would be fitting even if Ares had been someone else and not the Black Knight—the shiny hair, his aristocratic demeanor somehow—yes, Lene was aware of it too for she knew a bit of blueblood living based on the parties she attended and the guests she danced to. Although the Black Knight was curt, he did not look like he was completely  _absent._ Well-groomed. Presentable. Although Javarro was basically swimming in gold at the moment, somehow wealth could not buy class.

“Whatchu thinkin’?” a sailor puffed a cigarette at her face.

“Waiting for the next dance. ... Sir,” she quickly added after trying to supress the audacious small cough that was about to bark. No way she would back down, let alone with a man like this.

“You can live more comfortably without this, y'know, like, with me,” the sailor winked, and this time her patience started running out that she let out a hearty laughter. From the corner of her eyes she saw the Black Knight straightened his back, and she wondered if he was actually  _watching._

 _If so, then... my bad luck,_  she mused, because by then Ares should have  _known_  he was being watched.

“I love my job,” she deflected politely, “and I’m creating art, which is a plus.”

“Ha! You can do well creating the art in my bed,” the sailor brought his large hand to slap her ass, only shrieking in an horror when feeling something sharp poked out of her dress. “Is that a... sword?!”

“Yes. What’s wrong? I thought you wanted this?” instead of backing down, she taunted him even more, enjoying every bit as the sailor carelessly applied some pressure to stop the paper cut. “Men,” she sighed, setting away the sword and slowly took up her position when the music started. Twirling, turning, swaying the scarves around, spinning... the crowd exploded into cheery applauses, and she cordially returned their appreciation. Sweat drops like pearls fell one by one by the time she was finished, yet no sign of exhaustion happened to appear on her face. She was like this unquenchable fire ready to keep going on and on forever; the rejuvenating entertainment she provided, rejoicing audience one motion after another.

She was about to grab a drink when a taller shadow loomed over her, and as fast as she could muster, she grabbed her sword, swinging it to the side. Some men were also persistent and she was not new to it. However...

Ares stood blankly as he slightly rose Mystletainn’s handle to parry the strike. The handle met against her blade tip, causing a  _clank!_ sound as she gasped. Did she just attempting to strike the Black Knight, the  _very one and only Black Knight Ares,_ the murder machine? She did not fear Ares just because it was Ares—in fact she treated him like she did her other audience—indifferent, formal too, somewhat—also because she only wanted to sell her talent and nothing more. At the same time, she was in  _awe_ —yes, in awe. Ares’ counter was so subtle and simple, yet the old motto being  _simplicity is the ultimate sophistication_ seemed to be match made in heaven for him. Lene hated fighting and never considered herself a warrior, but even then she could feel what he did was effective. That simple counterattack of his handle colliding with her blade tip broke all the power that one sword swing possessed, unbalancing her center of gravity and providing him with a wide opening. Had this been a real fight, she would be dead. Hence she wondered if this was the last thing his opponent saw before darkness...

“I’m sorry!” she quickly retorted. “I really did not mean to stab you.”

“I know,” he responded, just matter-of-factly without a hint of superiority in his voice. 

And as much as she hated to admit, he was right.  _Or you are already dead,_ somehow she could hear him mirroring her thoughts.

She was weighing in what to say when he slipped a hand into his inner pocket, digging somewhere under that cape. His unexpected movement somehow startled her, and her sword thumped into the floor as she backed away reflexively. “Um...”

“The purse,” he simply gestured to her, drawing something wrapped with a papercloth.

“For... me?” she stared in disbelief. The Black Knight returned her miserable purse by buying a new one? “I thought you have forgotten.“

“I don’t forget,” he replied. She wondered if she was imagining it, but that moment looked like Ares closed his eyes for some seconds as if savoring something important. “... if not, I’m going to lose my target. He—murderer of my father—“ he stopped, realizing he had been generous with his personal sentiment, and now looking disgruntled because  _of_   it. Glancing downside, he picked up the sword she just dropped. “Do not lose this again.”

 _Do not?_ Lene blinked, did not believe what he just told her. The Black Knight did not even take a revenge or punish her—instead, he encouraged her to keep the sword? The Black Knight’s curtness, however, was not annoyance to her. Rather... awkwardness.

“Thank you, Ares. You are very kind!”

Ares stood in silence. Kind? Of all the things people talked about him,  _kind_ was never in the list. And what did he do again? Picking up a couple of new shirts to replace his old ones in town and accidentally put a purse in his basket? Or remembering a purse with similar model when he was about to return it? He scoffed. Kindness? He did not really care about the money because he only spent for necessities. What was so kind about it then? “So you know me, Dancer.”

“I’m Lene,” without hesitation she grabbed his hand and joined in for a handshake, blissfully unaware of his enlarging eyes as he was too stunned to react her amiable gestures. “Yes, I know you! They called you the Black Knight it seems? But I heard your name is Ares. So... hi, Ares, I’m Lene. And thanks again.”

“Lene,” he repeated. The word felt strange in his mouth. Javarro kept drilling him about pleasure without attached sentiment, and he did not see the importance of remembering a woman’s name besides his mother’s, and a couple of relatives they said he used to have—faceless as they were, but not nameless: Lachesis, his supposed aunt who used to come over to chat with his father (he had no idea why Mother seemed to tense each time Auntie Lachie picked him up to play, though), and a girl he heard to be related to him as a cousin, whose name even escaped him.

Ares wondered why this dancer—Lene? Insisted on calling him Ares. Was  _the Black Knight_ not enough?

He coughed. She reflexively patted his back.

He stole a glance. She called for a glass of water.

He stopped. 

She stopped, following suit.

“Who smoke here just now,” he mumbled, and she looked so entertained that it was almost as if she was about to burst out crying... with laughter. “So, the bastard from prior,” he verified.

“Uh-huh,” she responded, nonchalantly. “You can’t stand tobacco?”

“I can’t stand—“  _people?_ He wanted to reply, but seeing her, it would feel too... pathetic. Too edgy. Too basic. “—the smell, I suppose. This water... for me?”

“I asked for Ares. Your name is still Ares, right?” she chuckled.

“Lene,” it was as if he was trying the word again, right after he took a sip. “That was dangerous, swinging a sword like that.”

“I never thought it would be you,” she countered defensively.  _Of course_ she knew it was. As if going out during the night to perform dances itself was not, especially with unsavory men like that shadowing her.

“Does not matter,” he grabbed his sword, and for a moment Lene thought Ares was about to get his retribution now. Instead, he made a move, and returned to her. “If he caught you here, you’re done for. Next time, aim for his throat. Go for the jugular vein. Deep enough, and he’ll stop breathing.”

“I don’t like fighting.”

“You have a sword.”

“You too have a sword.”

“I don’t kill because I like it.”

“You have a sword.”

“You have a point.”

 _That easy?_ She tried to find something else, but all his expression said the same thing to her—he did not lie. Did she just... outwit  _Ares?_ THAT ARES? Suddenly she felt challenged. Out of all people she did not need Ares to preach on her. Yes, he was strong, much stronger than she was, and then what of it? Essentially they were just two people happening to make a living here, navigating the cruel world on their own. “Then teach me!” gods knew where that idea came from. Impulse? Temper? Wanting to teach him a lesson? Even if it was so, a lesson about  _what?_ “If this world was a bit safer, then women do not need to carry this damn thing around at night, you know? Oh sorry, I thought—it was your job—“

Ares blinked, eyeing Javarro at a distance, this time sliding a hand beneath someone else’s dress. Javarro. The one who taught him pleasure, and would always mock sentiments.  _Enjoy while it lasts,_  Ares, he would say,  _use them, but don’t give in._ He recalled the sailor. And how her name flew smoothly out of his lips. If this world was a bit kinder to women, perhaps his mother, too...

“I guess I can do that the next time you have your sword with you. Big doesn’t equal undefeatable.”

“Yeah, right? H-huh? What—“

“Scared?”

“Scared? I almost knocked you down and you think I’m scared?!”

“Your voice broke a bit.”

“I’m not a teenager boy growing into puberty!”

“I did not say so. You are creative, Dancer.”

“It’s Lene and for someone who almost got stabbed, you’re—“

“Almost.”

“... Oh goodness, Ares!” suddenly the dancer gasped. “Did you just... actually... joke?”

Did I? Ares stared in shock. “You inhaled the cigarette.”

“Oooh, Ares!”

“... What now, Lene?”

 _What now, Lene?_ The name. The name felt so natural to be spoken of. He wondered if his was just as easy for her, because ‘Black Knight’ was all he was mostly used to hear.  _What now, Lene?_

_Yes, what now, Lene? What else do you need?_

Ares scoffed, hurriedly taking Mystletainn as he headed for the door.

“Ares—“ she wasn’t sure what to say, but she felt she  _had to_ say something.

“Ah, what if like this then,” the Black Knight spared a quick glance around. He dropped his voice into a deep, husky tone as if he wanted to make sure his intention perfectly conveyed to her. “If you return the purse, answer to my Mystletainn.”

Lene froze. What now? And that sudden change in demeanor. A threat? Or...

“It was a gift, you know.”

She watched as he walked to the door with Javarro in tow. Shortly after, the other mercenaries hurriedly following them outside. She picked up her sword, concealing it safely this time as her smile began to crack.

_So, awkwardness indeed._


	3. Love

He took a deep breath and steadied his form. His blade swung back and forth, following his movements. Lunging, parrying, trying to race an invisible enemy by changing the grip a couple of times.  _Upper counter,_ he thought, imagining someone bringing a weapon against him over the head. He turned around, forming a perfect 45 degree angle followed by a powerful diagonal blow beginning from the leg to his upper shoulder. He paused for a few seconds to manage his breathing, and at the same time visualizing a gory image of an agonizing opponent cupping their lower chin to stop some heavy blood loss. And he of all people knew it would be futile as his opponent would be landing on ground creating a pool of blood.

 _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ He closed his eyes, feeling proud of himself as his breathing became stable again. He attacked powerfully, charging on opponents like a fiery burning hearth with a monstrous coal supply cracking within. He did not retreat. It was he who would command the would-be opponent to flee while they had the chance or get ready to sate the Mystletainn.

Better yet, he did not know how to retreat. Bruises and scratches served him as the extra pile of wood a family’s quiet living room required every winter. And it was during those moments he would relish how real all the things were to him—the pain, the silent scream of his skin, his weary muscles which all besought him to reconsider.

But Ares did not know what that was either. His childhood was filled with  _retreating_ moments—Grahnye taking him somewhere else when he spent too much time in the company of Aunt Lachesis, Eldigan pensively scribbling some notes on to his personal parchments, telling both he and Grahnye about how busy he was, and how he had to sleep because “another day, Ares,” and “if you do not sleep properly, you will not be strong enough to wield the Mystletainn.”

And when war broke, his father sent him away thinking his mother’s old hometown of Leonster could shield them from the terror that was about to unfold. Ares recalled being loaded into a carriage at night, serenaded only by his mother’s grave look in the midst of their piling belongings inside the carriage. His father’s noble cross knights who acted as lifeguards did not speak a lot but asking if they were lacking anything or informing how far ahead Leonster was.

Ares asked about Sigurd. And Grahnye enveloped him in her arms, softly telling him to sleep. Between this world and another, Ares heard a cross knight whispered solemnly to his mother, mentioning something residing inside the carriage’s secret compartment, under their foot pad, and “When the time comes.”

Ares felt Grahnye’s arms around him shivered as if his mother just went out to dive a winter lake. It was a pretty hot night and they were riding with Nordion knights and Grahnye never left him out of her surveillance, so Little Ares wondered where this hypothermic tremor came from. But when he opened his eyes, he found shades of daybreak peeking into the carriage’s window, with his mother gently stroke his hair, muttering the same things about his beautiful golden locks, and how it would be hard to tell him apart with Eldigan when he grew up.

Grahnye usually did that every night, though.

“Why did Father send us to Grandpapa’s in Leonster, Mama?”

“Because he loves you very much, dear,” came the answer as Grahnye carefully washed his travel-weary body with a rag soaked in warm water.

“And the sword. Father cherishes the Mystletainn.”

“Because he loves you,” she mumbled, “he loves you. He loves you very much and that will be enough for me.”

Ares did not understand what she meant, but he was ushered to sleep again when his mother sensed his intention of asking another question.  _So Mystletainn will be mine because he loves me,_ he mumbled,  _and why are you telling me to sleep? I’ve slept a lot in the carriage._

“Because I love you,” Grahnye whispered to him. As far as his little head could recall, ever since he was deemed big enough to sleep in a separate room Father and Mother only came to him thrice. First was when there was a raging thunderstorm, another when he heard of this big scary thing called “the monster under the bed,” from the gardener’s daughter, and the last time it happened, Papa Eldie barged in like a lion. He was clad in the same clothes he had worn before going to sleep, and gone was the gaze of the softspoken, gentle Eldigan of Nordion Aunt Lachesis praised so much. The black demon sword, the Mystletainn, was in Eldigan’s grip until his right knuckle turned white, and for the first time in his life, Ares  _understood_ why his father bore the name of Lionheart.

“Ares,” he called out to him. Low voice was filled with deadly, potent danger as the Lionheart took a side step without making a sound. “Do not move.” As agile as the lightning flash he saw from the window some months ago, Eldigan the Lionheart leaped forward, lunging at a lurking attacker who spared them a loud, suffering cry when the Mystletainn diagonally grazed his biceps. “You are not going to die so easily,” Eldigan muttered under his breath, unperturbed by the cries of pain and the blood dripping out from the attacker's scarred arms. “Lowly assassin who won’t even challenge me to a fair fight, who sent you, craven cur? Why targeting my son?!”

Ares stared in awe at Eldigan’s prowess. He could not back away even though Mystletainn was practically gleaming in blood drip under that night’s moonlight. His father's adept strikes. The charisma. The anger. The worry look at his face when he checked on him. How his voice was back to the normal Papa Eldie's voice he was familiar with: soft, gentle, mesmerizing. As if realizing his prided heir was watching the entire scene, Eldigan quickly retorted to his usual self, talking about how he wielded the powerful Mystletainn as a knight's pride and honor, where duty to serve and protect was taken by every bit of soul of a knight. Yet above all he loved him so much that he vowed to protect him, casting away any danger that might try to harm him. And with it, Eldigan set Mystletainn aside, taking a book from a low shelf the nanny had installed three months ago. Sitting Ares in his lap, shielding the beautiful boy with warm, broad shoulders, Eldigan opened the book, and his gentle husky voice serenaded the little lion to sleep:  _Once upon a time, there were dragons who watched over the humankind..._

"I love you, Ares. Now go to sleep, everything will be alright."

* * *

 

Ares cursed. As he lost his footing, his body graciously thumped on the ground. Patting heavily, he dragged himself up, posting Mystletainn into the ground to use it as a leaning stick. “Heh...” bitter smile formed out of his parted lips, realizing how dirty his shirt had become, and how his pants were tainted with dirt. He yanked his own cravat and threw it away upon noticing the tailoring was loose as well.

_You are wrong, Father._

Ares brought his dominant hand over his face, wiping the stains of dirt and soil decorating him when his body met the Earth. He took a breath again, this time pulling ou Mystletainn from the ground and quickly recovered himself to get ready with another stance.

 _Riposte, damn it—_ he mumbled desperately, imagining an offensive strike where a quick thrust would be launched right after parrying an opponent's attack. A nice one would ensure someone’s death, and it would not be his. Consecutive strikes, powerful charges. Punishment from hell.

_Does love equal absence to you? Why, Father, why—_

A riposte. As graceful as a pecking eagle, but he needed more time to recover his stance and get steady again, too slow for his liking.

_Then move as I command you to, Mystletainn._

Another try for riposte.

_Aren’t you a gift of love, Mystletainn?_

Third riposte. Perfect like his father. Ares huffed heavily, and his body was jolted backwards as prior. His panting started to stabilize, and eventually turned into soft sighs as he laid down spread-eagle with eyes directed at the sun.

_Too bright._

_... Too serene._

Ares recalled his training moment of the day. He was not sure if he actually really loved solitude; one thing he could be sure of was that he much preferred it to Javarro’s jabbing. Of course Javarro never read him fairy tales. Nor did he come to ease his worries when it rained—if anything, Javarro cursed him and talked about this little matter called ‘being a man’ and “stop acting like a sissy,”—a word he had no idea about at 10 years old, and until today, still wondered if there was such a thing as his adoptive father declared. Their group came into contact against pegasus knights a couple of times. Swordswomen with sharp strikes as fierce as their gaze when meeting him, and the heroic things they yelled out as Javarro’s blows buried their dreams as they did their bodies. And definitely it was not the first time for Javarro to read the story of benevolence rescue, supposedly— _If I did not give a damn about you, I’d have left you dead cold from starvation like your poor mother, boy. She died in agony after refusing nutrition because, what, her **love** for your father? See what a soft heart can make you. That’s why your father wields this sword and not her; and this time it is your turn._

“Ares?”

His eyes were wide-open because he was not sure if he could sleep to bury these images even if he wanted to. Too early to sleep, anyway, since he only returned to his compartment with the mercenary only to wait for the day changing. And once he returned, he hardly wanted to do much with the rest. Some of them could be up all night drinking and partying, but to him it was idiotic—look at them slumping when the morning came, and how pathetic their sword grip would be in the afternoon.

Orange fabric danced before his eyes as the wearer slowly, graciously walked towards him. He made a cynical sound, feeling humiliated because  _she_ found him at this predicament. A company. Right when he  _least_ expected it. Wait—he never dreamed of having one either...

“Lene,” he nodded firmly, giving her the trademark ‘Angry Ares’ look. Instead of being discouraged, she bobbed her head up and down, stretching an arm and enthusiastically waved at him.

_What have I gotten into..._

“Hi! Good afternoon!” without a hint of hesitation as if his acknowledgment for her presence was all that she needed, she set herself down right where he laid down—stretched out, “like a loser,” he thought—but of course she could not hear that one. “What happened to you?”

“Lying down I guess,” he replied bitterly, “like the loser who knows nothing as I always am.”

“Ares...”

“I’m down after a riposte.”

“The soil here is bad. It was raining last night, Ares, no wonder everything felt slippery now,” she responded as her other hand started digging into her purse. He caught it just in time when she was about to take something out of it—to his horror.

“I...” he stared in disbelief, “my training got into me more than I like it, I guess.”

“You have a powerful sword that nobody else can wield, or so I heard,” still unpertrubed by his action, she gleefully lifted her purse and shoved it at his face in a playful way. “See, I’m using this.”

“Mystletainn is my sword. My powerful sword,” he grunted, feeling a weird urge to crack a smile as she did that. And temptation for something more—like what, snatching it just to mess with her like a stupid school boy? To see how long she would keep this amiable facade before denouncing him like others? ... Wait—facade—was it, though... “And I am  _angry_ if it does not  _obey_  me.”

“Oh, you want to be obeyed?”

Ares blinked. She playfully poked his shoulders. No hesitation, no fear, no barrier. Was his reputation not enough to scare her away? What is it with this  _presence_ —“Actually, no.”

“Then don’t be angry at Mystletainn.”

 _You..._ “You talk as if you know so much about a sword you cannot even lift.”

“You said it was an heirloom,” she replied casually, “So I can only picture your father loved you.”

_Ah..._

“... hey, Lene. Why are you here again?”

“I concluded my rehearsal. Everything was so sore that I took a rest for a while around here. Sounds alike?” she smiled. “Did you know there’s a nice dessert cafe around here, Ares? They serve these delicacies all over Jugdral. There is even a nice, nice large portion of fruit parfait you can eat until you cry with happiness!”

“Crying with happiness, huh,” he wasn’t sure if he truly listened; he did attest that the sound of her voice felt like a nice singing in his ears, though. Perhaps he bumped down too hard...

“Oh, don’t mock me,” Lene gently slammed her handkerchief on his face. Something she actually meant to take out before Ares was startled enough to stop her. Lene seemed to do it out of reflex as well because the dancer softly gasped after realizing what just happened—bop-ing Ares... on the face? “You... you kind of look troubled, Ares, so I thought of stopping by to check on you! Goodness, seeing you lying down still like that gave me creeps. For a second, I thought you were dead!”

“I am not,” he finally truly pulled himself up, setting himself into a sitting position beside her. Dumbfound expression was visible on his face as her handkerchief fell into his grasp from the forehead. “First striking me, then this one. Are you sure you are not trying to murder me...?”

She was initially not sure how to react, but his line broke the ice. Lene laughed, her chuckles felt natural in his ears, as cheerful and refreshing like her dance performances would always be. “Shut up and stay still,” she took the handkerchief back from him, and her hands moved around to clean him up—up from the forehead, his nose tip, his stained cheeks, some dirt under his lips—“I... think you can do this alone, right?” this time she backed away, slamming the embroidered white handkerchief into his palm.

_No. Don’t leave me like this, please. I thought caring means absence—_

“... What was that just now?” he stared blankly.

“You do not want people to obey you, right?”

“No. And I’d rather mastering my sword than forcing it to move like I want it. So...”

“So you can clean yourself up and then return this to me,” she retorted, “and I will be  _very_ upset if you don’t, Ares. I love that one. It takes a while to sew between these tight performing schedules, you know? So if you value your life, return it to me! And your cravat there—“

“I can mend it,” he shook his head. “If I value my life, huh? And if I don’t that much?”

“Ares—“

“I  _will_ return this to you,” he replied in a soft tone, hiding his lightened eyes under his gold mullet as he bent his head to keep the handkerchief in his pocket. “And I think you’ve bothered me too much today.”

“What’s that?” she pouted, and he—he did not know how to feel. Those lips—that  _O_ shape—those fiery eyebrows, those resolved, lively eyes—WAIT?

Another shock. Lene huffed, picking up Mystletainn from his side. He could see her struggling with the weight and shape because she was not accustomed to it. Mysteltainn was forged specifically for the children of Hezul, for the heirs of Nordion, which she was neither. However...

“Yaaaah!” she shouted a battle cry, surprising him. The dancer swayed around, half-circle of a full twist-footing attempting to make a strike. “Whoa—“

“That is enough,” Ares quickly caught her before it was her turn to bathe in dirt. “Lene—the hell?!”

“What did you say to me before?” she smiled triumphantly. “Something about a sword I cannot lift?”

“... You—“ Ares stopped. And picked his jaw off the ground. And...

Hesitant chuckles followed as he conveyed a thank you.


	4. Hate

She clutched her clothes bag tightly.

Cold breeze slapped her across the face, and she grasped her ribbon with a fist as if it could disappear the moment she did not. She had been walking for some solid thirty minutes, and her bleary eyes anxiously watched the moon as she dragged her heels to keep going on.

_It's so late._

Her messy little steps became more of a hindrance than serving her as a faithful steed—messy zigzags, diagonal stroll, one step forward, other two backward. When she could not trust her balance anymore, she stretched a hand, feeling the rough exterior of concrete walls beside her, and held on to a brick as if her life depended on it.

And for one relieving moment, she conserved her energy.

She was already surprised her body still had the strength to go on, considering the night she just experienced. She had been dancing for what felt like three hour-straight performance, taking part in a grand festivity she was invited to. The hosts, or rather, their servants, had spread a roll of a bespoke soft, silken carpet in red and gold colors. Flower vases were lined up along the way, and her eyes sparkled to see how bright the mansion's hall was. Candles in various sizes and colors lightened the room as they did the mood, and even until the night before her performance took place Lene could not dream of being welcomed in so much grandeur.

She was a dancer in Darna, who danced mostly in a modest bar where cross-country traders, travelers, and mercenaries stopped to unwind. While true that she landed wealthy patrons here and there, she always established a professional boundary between her and her audience, conveying it in body language or even diplomatic sweet speech that her art was everyone, equally—but the master of the art itself, nobody. And regardless of some dissenting voices, she regained loyal spectators' respect even more exactly because of that. Even among the dissents nobody could deny her charisma—charm too, and of course, bravery—that they begrudgingly praised her for planting her roots adamantly.

And she made sure to return their appreciation to her very well. Never once she slacked in her rehearsals, and she always aimed for improvements when she practiced. She diligently looked for new inspirations, seeing colors and movements out of the things around her, and sometimes, sketched them out on a paper. For Lene, she was not just a dancer. She was an artist, and her dances were akin to designer cakes if not artisan breads. Every dance brought rejuvenation, and even the old scores still made the audience feel refreshed because not only that each execution felt like new, but also because it was somehow able to infatuate the crowd as if each sequence was personally orchestrated for them.

Definitely, she was definitely ecstatic when being told a wealthy baron had sought to invite her igniting his new house. The baron owned several villas designed for suitable seasons, she was told, and this would be his winter retreat where the residents of the house could be coddled by the comfort of warmth, with abundant supply of good food with good wine stored in the cellar at a finger snap.

Thus she worked hard to plan her dances for the day. Warmth was the theme she chose based on the description she was told, and liveliness accompanied it to make a perfect combination of an ideal, lazy winter day. She was confident in her capability to convey the theme on stage, but at the same time that would mean the choreography emphasized on active motions. She added many movements in her sequences, dividing them with silent, still body position but with various hand motions to replicate fire sparks. She then would change into a sitting position while delivering the hand motions, this time trying to depict bonfire. And during those short transitioning moments, she would catch a breath, relax her muscles a little by distributing the burden and loads she would be carrying as she planned on dancing with rings... and her faithful sword too. Her performance was as honest as she was, and she was ready to captivate her spectators by dancing with a real sword. Lene believed to give all in every performance, whether it meant entertaining three people or a crowd. And those who had been to her shows or became a loyal fan could attest to that determination.

* * *

 

Lene coughed, tilting her head left and right, glancing for life signs. After making sure nobody saw her, in an excruciating manner moved her legs to a well she saw right when she entered the alley. Gone was all her pride and cautiousness as she scooped a bucket into it and greedily drank what was inside.

Another soft cough and she slumped down with her back facing the well's stony body. The bucket fell helplessly into a wooden vessel at the feet of the well, and a shouting came out. "Who's there?!"

Lene gritted her teeth, crawling to drag her exhausted limp body away from the well. So much of that professional pride, and she now had to run away for stealing some water like a fugitive. She could hear a wooden door being roughly opened, revealing an angry man with a meat knife in hand. If she was not too exhausted and miserable, she would turn this into a joke. Famous, prized dancer stealing water from a butcher's shop. What news it would make for tavern frequenters.

Lene stayed still until the man retreated to his shop. Suddenly her own emotions started to pile in her throat. She could list at least five including disappointment at this point, but none of them compared to how  _angry_ and upset she was at the moment.

She had been invited with promise of gold and silk bolts—another luxury she did not dare to indulge in, fully aware her glory could last just as long as fireworks. Bright, yet short-lived. And if she left the stage, there would be dozen more ready to replace her, and she refused to spend the rest of her life in misery just beca use temporary shine blinded her.

And as expected, everyone present loved her performance. They religiously followed sequence after sequence, flocked to her during intermezzos, and demanded an encore. Nearly everyone praised her sharp and energetic performance, telling her how refreshed they were, and how confident she made them feel about the upcoming winter. Everyone, including the sharp-eyed, dagger-glaring baroness who watched her with brilliant smile with her rogue-decorated lips.

When they wrapped up, a servant ushered her to the back door. None of her hosts or the honorable guests attending the banquet sent her off. The back door was secluded and lonely, and the servant told her if she wished to be on the main road, then she had to take a turn by circling the mansion's driveway where expensive buggy carts and gold-colored carriages came and went to fetch the guests.

She stood there, her mouth open like a black hole swallowing every emotion inside of her as she assessed the situation. As if understanding her silent protest, the servant handed her an envelope with a lip-service goodbye message, about how satisfied the hosts had been with her, and in venomous politeness, implied that since she was so  _brilliant_ at dancing, perhaps she should be  _somewhere else_ rather than an honorable, proper mansion with an old family crest. As she tried to hold on to her fracturing heart, she was appalled to see how much money the hosts had put in the envelope.

"That's not... that's not what they promised me," she whispered.

The servant scoffed, telling her she  _must_ have something else to go since she had been spending some good three hours in their  _very honorable_ estate. And as her heart broke into little shards, she was ushered outside where no carriage or even warm blanket wrap welcoming her.

* * *

 

Lene shifted. Only then the misery just got to her. Dizziness struck her like a hammer being slammed on a blade at a blacksmith's shop, and her stomach churned when she attempted to stand up. She quickly pressed her scarf over her mouth to stop the nausea, but the pressure from within was too great that she eventually gave in.

 _My glory,_  she thought again, wiping her lips and threw away the scarf.  _One second in heaven, and another I am discarded like a useless tool._

Lene stood up.  _Perhaps I'm a fool,_ she mused, thinking how she snatched a banknote out of the wretched envelope and slammed it on some liquor store's countertop. She did not even bother to check the value, and bellowed a "Yes! I can afford it! Who do you think I am?!" in angershe could not bark at the cursed mansion when the bartender asked a question.

And only later she realized the bartender asked about portions, and how apparently she had spent a valuable banknote for really nice alcohol intake in one turn. By nice, of course, it meant  _tremendous._

Lene moved again. Her body was now brushing against tall grasses over the dusty lonely soil. The night had fallen, and with clouds hovering over the moon, she had no idea how late it was or where she headed to. She was thinking of stop giving a damn trying, finally acknowledging how tired and sore her entire body was from walking and dancing. Perhaps she would slump over here to sleep. Perhaps she would wake up dead the next day because it was not just the body that ached.

And in such desperate moment, she let out a laughter. Sarcastic, miserable laughter tore the night sky in two, only to become louder when an old lady yelled for her to shut up. She managed to evade the water thrown at her, though, and a depressing thought grazed her mind:  _so all I need is laughing like a witch on a nightfall for them to spare some water for me?_

She moved away again, trying to bask in darkness for some vague sense of safety. If they could not see her, they could not find her to berate her. And Lene was so done at this point, readying to throw herself away at whatever fortune which decided to make a cruel joke of her tonight.

That, however, was until she heard of a horse galloping.

 _Perfect finale if I lost my legs as well,_ she thought, bending her legs hoping to make it in time to evade the horse. Something shiny from the horse's right side caught her eyes, but a torch the rider held in his left hand captured everything. Lene had wished someone else would spare some attention—and probably bread—to her earlier, but now she was not sure. She slowly regained her composure, feeling humiliated to be seen in such pathetic condition.

The horse stopped, and Lene made a stand with her sword. At least the rider  _ought to_ know she had a sword. After becoming acquainted by the Black Knight Ares for four months by now, even he would agree that showing off the sword was not a bad idea, because, according to him, "Some men talk big and strike soft."

When she asked why he said that, Ares told her because they were dead.

* * *

 

"Lene."

Her blurry eyes tried to interpret the master of the voice. Dizziness again overwhelmed her although the person calling for her held the torch close so they could see each other.

"Lene?"

Fortune must hated her.

"You are Ares," she responded deliriously. "Strong, strong Ares. Now I meet you in a dark alley."

Ares was pensive as if weighing in her words. His eyes darted on the dirty sword and her tangled hair.

"Are you done killing people again tonight?" she waved her arm back and forth at him while he only watched. "Or did you come for me like anyone else... anyone else..."

"What do you mean?"

"To kill me... to destroy me?"

"What are you talking about?" the Black Knight waved the torch aside so the fire did not hurt their faces. Upon getting closer to her, his expression changed as if he just figured everything. "You are drunk."

"Am I? Am I, Ares? Tell me," Lene let out an off-tune laughter. The Black Knight's eyebrows dove deeply when she did that, and had anyone else could watch them, they would have a hard time telling who felt hurt more because of his somber expression.

"Come on, Lene," he decided to just act, stopping her from her stupor movements.

"Where?"

"I'm taking you home."

"Why?" she let out a hiccup, followed by a choking sound as if somewhere back there, tears were being murdered. "You see, Ares—even you too cannot buy me."

It was almost like his blood flow stopped right away. He stood with a blank expression, not knowing how to respond while his other arm still encircled her shoulders. "Lene," his voice was low.  _Potent._

"Everyone thought they could own me," she mumbled, her drunken grin reigned on her face. "My feet were so... sore. My hands felt stiff for being in this position for two hours—" she choreographed, to which he said an "Ah," understanding that she meant dancing. Because if that had been  _something else_ —something happened in this dark alley right before he passed by, he swore he could ride again to track down the culprit. "—And you know what they gave me, Ares? Nothing," she threw the money envelope at him, and he peeked inside out of curiosity.

Deep down he did wonder why he would always want to know about her, though. He could not care less how much money inside, nor how much she generally made. But this was Lene, and she too had been treating him like a human being even though he was Ares.

"Not even a ride. Not even a dinner," she kept mumbling expressively until her body collapsed into his hands as if he knew she would. "And I planned this for weeks. And they welcomed me with beautiful carpet. You know, Ares, for a moment I thought—I thought humanity was real and I'd like to believe it."

He gently swayed her to the side, leading her to his horse.

"Oh you will  _not_ imagine what they told me when I set the stage on fire," her words came out melodically as if she was in a trance. "—Figuratively!" there was a giggle when Ares stopped moving.

"Should just do that," Ares responded sharply as fire flickered in every inch of his bone. Lene was not him. He was not a saint, but she lived a more honorable life than he did. She created art, creating  _life_ while he often ended it. Even if honor hardly meant anything these days, Lene was an understanding person with a drive of positivity if not fairness and it pained him to see people still attempting to dupe her.

"Soooo yoummm seeehhh," the slumbering words echoed around the alley, and Ares, sensing she was about to collapse again, tightened his hand around her waist. Mystletainn made a clinking sound when it bumped on Lene's sword, which handle was now locked in his armpit as he moved Lene to the horse.

"So you did not even eat and had a drink," he finished her sentence, but his tone was  _inquiring._

"Yeah. Yeaahahaha," she cackled. "My sword?"

"With me."

"I can stabs yous, y'know."

"You know that  _I know_ that's not what you want to do."

"I's gonna lift."

"No, but  _I_ will." Without waiting for her another drunk talk he steadied his grip over her waist, and hoisted her up on to his mount. She let out a little gasp of surprise, staring on the ground as if verifying what she just experienced with the Black Knight was not a dream.

"Ares..."

"I will wait," he replied simply, hooking a side satchel with his left leg to fetch a military leather water container as she fixed her position as well as her dress. "And drink. It's ginger ale I always fill my vessel with each time I'm traveling midnight."

"Ginger ale..." she mumbled again, obediently taking what he handed to her.

"... My father used to teach me," Ares paused a bit even though judging from his position, he sure was ready to gallop right away. "... because stamina is important and no matter how strong you are, faltering is easy when you are exhausted. And this keeps you warm without lowering your guard like alcohol does to you."

"Then your father is a great man."

"He  _was_ a great man," Ares responded sharply. Sadness bit him right in the heart.

"He isa great man," she insisted. "Aren't I... right?"

"... Yes," he relented, surprised at how easy it was for him to concur. Both of them did not say anything as he pulled his black cape and draped it over her. "Now we are riding."

"Alright," came her shivering reply as his mount started to jump over the wind. Cold breeze felt like little arrows attacking them from the front, and somehow Lene found the safety she had been longing for as forehead softly bumped into his wider, stronger back.

"If we rush, I'm sure our inn can still fix you a meal," Ares stole a glance at her, trying to explain the sensation he felt as her skin touched him. There were only two of them in this world, with the wind around him, and how comforting it was for him to see his cape swallowing her body. She looked warmer, and most importantly, safe—the word Ares struggled to find when he found her in the hay like a corpse.

"Our inn," she whispered softly. She was aware Ares simply referred to the inn adjacent to a bar where she danced frequently, where he and Javarro picked up missions. However that very moment the word felt so strangely intimateto her. There was an unexplainable fear which suddenly crept into her, because of all everything else, intimatewas not something she wanted to associate with anyone.She was aware that she was drunk, and everythingcould feel like  _anything_ at this point. However, no matter she tried Lene could not stop the soft sobs flowing outside. First it was like rain drops—subtle yet there, and her canals were open, emotions flew overwhelmingly like a flooding water. "Ironic—ironic, right?"

"About what?" It was not that Ares did not hear those sobs.

"They worshiped me when I was on stage," she muttered, tattered words akin to blood drip. "But apparently, no matter what and how, to them I am a no lady. I never was."

 _You know damn well it is not true,_ he wanted to respond, but kept his mouth shut.

"To be used and discarded, not even worthy of a good night—or a safe trip."

"You are riding with the Black Knight. You shall have the safe trip," his response was firm and simple, but somehow it gave her an impression of... reliability. "And I'll make sure you sleep."

"But Ares," she whispered so faintly he almost stopped the horse just to catch it.

"I am not buying you, Lene," his voice intensified. "Do you take me as some sort of a scoundrel?"

"I mean—" Ares wondered if she realized she had tightened her hugging, " _I_ cannot afford  _you_."

Neither of them did not say anything until they arrived at the inn. Ares ordereda meal and some herbal tea from the bar to be sent upstairs where he logged a room for her. "Get these things if you don't have. I will drink the herbal tea myself if you do not want to serve the dancer, now move before Mystletainn drink you too!"

It was quite  _the_  spectacle because some people who were still up after a little folk music concert post-dinner could see how the Black Knight carrying someone—someone clad in his cape, kicking the door open and slammed it right at their faces. When sensational reactions could be heard from the outside, Ares yanked the door, his eyes sharply pierced his audience one by one, much to their horror.

"If you are going to peep on a lady here, then fine," he barked, "but remember that Mystletainn never forgets its preys; I do not either."

"There was a sword sticking out of your armpit and w-we thought you got stabbed—"

"I can cleave you two to prove I'm perfectly alright," he growled, and they left just as he wished his menacing demeanor would make them to. He came inside again, seeing Lene hesitantly munched the meal he ordered for her.

"I... um, I will pay you back."

"You fucking won't."

She looked on the floor, and quickly took off his cape and folded it as if realizing she had something she was not supposed to be entitled to. And that was how it went all this long—unworthy of anything, not entitled to the things other people had without breaking a sweat. Feeling like... "Taking too much space?"

He stopped.

"... right? So I created my own space. Through the dancing."

Ares sighed, rolling his sleeves and loosened his cravat. "In a way it's the same for me too."

"... For you?"

"I work with Javarro—no, you can say  _for_  him, the adoptive father I never asked for. I do these jobs for the people that hired us. And yet," he splashed some water to wash his face, and quickly dried it up with a simple towel over the table. Crystal drops slowly fell from his fringes, giving a sad image of a sun that could not shine because of sky clouds...

Lene swallowed the last bite of her meal.

"—they cannot buy me either," Ares finished his sentence, setting down a copper room key on the table. He was not sure if he could sleep tonight, but the thought of her in a safe room going to bed with a full stomach, warm with his cape somehow serenaded him to sleep.

Today was pretty overwhelming even for him, but he thought he saw some stars as he lied down beside the horse as he ushered it to the stall.


	5. Triumph

It did not take long for her to notice how beautiful his hair was.

The Black Knight— _Ares,_ as she would softly murmur his name in discreet, being marveled at how natural his name felt in her mouth—was blessed with beautiful lustrous golden locks, which reminded her of how the sky looked like in the morning. And for her, every morning carried a new hope, as every sunrise became the ambassador. Ares carried himself with a rather imposing demeanor, especially with the peculiar demon blade Mystletainn which resided by his side. However, the contrasting colors of his hair to the menacing black cape that had become his trademark suavely conveyed the nuance of elegance, something she always wondered if he had a clue about.

With his hair, everything else followed short because she started paying attention to other things. How he had some finely-toned abs, for example, as she figured one afternoon when raindrops caused Ares to let go of his shirt as he helped pulling an elderly man’s cart because it had stuck in the mud. How his hair gently draped to his shoulders akin to a silk curtain woven with gold threads and decorated with diamonds. How his shoulders appeared firm and powerful even though he did not appear very much muscular unlike rowdy fighters, typically axe-wielders she was used to see because they often frequented the bar where she danced.

And by everything, she meant everything. Like how she noticed the way he treated the old man delivered a sense of respect or how those shoulder muscles moved so that he did not have to force the man’s elderly wife out to the pouring rain as he attempted to rescue their cart. Thus with one, came another. After bumping into him at the market in the morning for the fourth time, she concluded he was a person of routine and started noticing his habits as well. First, how he would leave his trademark black cape at the mercenary headquarter where he and the rest of Javarro’s men logged themselves in. Then, how he would always have Mystletainn with him just like how she carried her sword with her in most days. If there was a recurring theme in this routine she observed, it was how Ares would stop by to fill his leather bag with provisions—in which meat was the majority.

When she bumped into him for the fifth time in the morning, she could have sworn of seeing a little triumphant smile on his disinterested face—the expression he wore most of the days. “New dance?”

And whatever it was which possessed her that day because she grabbed those locks, yanking it down much to his bewilderment. “It’s your fault for being tall. Now this way we will not bump!”

“Lene—“ Ares gasped. Something clicked into him when he realized how _mischievous_ the look she gave him, and he wondered if he had been too liberal with her or whether it was the time to set clear boundaries between them, if not for his hair’s sake.

It was not that he did not notice some things about her, though. How she would dress down during the day, contrasting to the elaborate bespoke manner her fashion was during her performances. Or how he secretly took notice that her dances were mostly scheduled at night as he wondered if her patrons would be kind enough providing the dancers a carriage after the show was concluded. How her natural face was as refreshing as the morning and her festive one intriguing like the night, and, comparing them to sword play, he was pleasantly surprised to conclude that one did not need to outshine the other because both were equally just as good the way defending and striking worked together for Mystletainn. How light her feet moved and how she seemed to be weightless as she turned around, swinging those colorful scarves to the anticipating audiences.

“Bow down to me,” she laughed cheerfully.

That very moment Ares realized he would never be able to have the boundary even if he dreamed of it. And the thing was, he did not even dream of it. He had known her for a while after their accidental talk when his group happened to be present as she performed. Months passed by, and he definitely could feel the weather getting warmer even though Javarro insisted it was still too cold to rise earlier again. Although he barely paid attention to climate except when obvious signs showed up, he was well aware that he did not have a fever when a surge of similar warmth started budding inside of him each time she laughed. His only trouble was that she often did…

“Oooh, you are silent. Perhaps you are constipated.”

“No? I lead quite a healthy life.”

“You know what they say,” she chirped, taking pleasure in torturing him by playing with the captured locks at her total mercy. “The scary, scary Ares. Frowning eyebrows. Sharp stares murdering you before the actual murder takes place.”

And Ares had to suppress a bubble burst of laughter he totally did not plan. “Sounds good at keeping idiots from picking fights with me then,” his voice almost sounded soft in her ears.

“That happened often?” she lifted her chin, a clue he took as _answer me, honestly, bluntly,_ and even _if_ he wanted to, he knew he could not weasel his way out with her.

“Not as bad as you think,” he gave a diplomatic answer after making a quick thought. “So, is my hair free to go now that I’ve satisfied your question?”

 _Not as bad if he kept winning I guess,_ she sighed. _This was the Black Knight, alright?_ Yet she wondered what happened in the nights where he did not, or the nights when his guard was not as sharp and whether there were nights when he was ambushed. Perhaps if she tailed a bit longer Ares would spill the beans. After all, what happened when he no longer scored victories? “… Sigh. Ares, your hair is so pretty and soft. Not fair. Say, Mr. Healthy-Life Whatsoever, what is the secret? What is it that made you be able to have beautiful hair like this? Shiny like the sunrise. Is that Mystletainn? Wait, you have a mirror, don’t you? Take a look at one if you don’t believe me. Mystletainn isn’t it?”

“And these two matters correlate with each other because…?”

“Because I just braided you.”

He made no effort to straighten his position albeit following the trail of her finger tips to his chest with his eyes. She damn right did it. A braid. One, single classic three-lock woven braid now shyly draped just slightly over his left shoulder, poking its tail with a cheeky “hello?” message.  It just dawned on him that the last person to ever talk to him about his hair was his mother, the Lady Grahnye of Nordion. And when she did, Grahnye never forgot to tell him how much of a mini-Eldie he was because of his striking similar resemblance with his late honorable father, Eldigan the Lionheart. “Dancers sure are creative,” he muttered, amused at her antics and applauded her bravery at the same time.

“Of course we are! Because if not, how are we not running out of ideas for performing every now and then? Now you acknowledge my prowess,” her glance darted at the braid again, noticing that Ares did not make an effort to entangle it so far. “Beautiful hair runs in the family?”

 _Now she poked me?_ “Well, my father had the same hair color,” he replied passively. “But that was all to me.”

“Then you are one of a kind!” she laughed again, seamless as it came and he had to pay attention to her expression to look for pity signs. Because what else that could explain all this friendly gesture if not pity? After all there was a good reason not to warm up to mercenaries, and the crowd he hung out with was not the best option for a girl’s company. He had seen how she professionally maintained a distance even with the wealthiest, most persistent patrons ever walked into the bar so far—without forgetting the playful suave touches she slipped as they interacted. A Dancer’s Gift, even if he was to say so for himself. And definitely something he did not possess or earn for … And yet his brief investigation proved to be fruitless because he could not find anything—not any single trace of mockery or even pity he low-key desperately looked for. Curious as he was, he could not help but feeling… relieved.

“Now what say you, Ares? My, being tall should be a punishable crime.” Her soft, yet peppy tone kept nudging him like a playful call to fight. Perhaps he should cede and acknowledged her bravery by… rewarding it with the _punishment_ she deserved. That would not hurt, right? Would not—

“I can say that if you force me to bend like this, then the next bump will be an instant kiss.”

“A—what?”

“What?” he cocked an eyebrow, “oh, right. My apologies. For _your_ height.”

“Ares!” an instant impulse drove her to land a light slap over his shoulder—a thought that hardly ever crossed either’s mind some time ago. His bewildered look for her informality with him, and the soft _gasp!_ sound she made as if she just realized what she had done.

“Finally. Thank you,” he simply responded as she released his hair, torn in between feeling amazed at the phantom weight of where her hand used to be even though it was no longer there or missing its presence already. And the braid remained untangled…

“One question,” she puffed, not willing to yield just yet. “Are you angry?”

“No?”

“At all?”

“At all. How am I supposed to do my job then?” he shrugged. “… Anger is precious. I don’t just… waste it at any matter. You of all people know infesting your personal sentiments is troublesome when you need some practicality for the day. And the thing is—that’s what my typical day is.”

“I mean with me,” she murmured.

Her reply successfully made his head turn just like her presence itself. “As if you would allow me,” yet another diplomatic response from the Black Knight. Perhaps he had been way too lenient indeed…

“Precisely!” but ah, a cheap price to see how easy those eyes sparkled and for that voice to light up…

“Where to?” he quickly put up the trademark unimpressed Black Knight tone so that lively voice would not haunt his head any longer. _This is dangerous,_ he mused again, thinking how formidable the dancer was and how sure she would make a formidable enemy if she was also a warrior. “I’m sorry to sound intruding, but are you going shopping, or…”

 _Ares talks like a member of nobility sometimes,_ she contemplated. Her first impressions of him were definitely almost pleasant if not _intrigued_ because despite the notorious reputation, the person she came to know was far from the Black Knight image curious townsfolk had been gossiping about in the bar. She had imagined the Black Knight to be anything but ruthless, someone mirroring Javarro’s and pretty much the rest of the mercenary group’s image except his honesty regarding the job as long as the good money was there. After all they dubbed him as Javarro’s successor, and if not for the black body armor she sometimes saw him strolling into the bar in or the shiny peculiar Mystletainn that shone menacingly under the moonlight she would not believe the person she was talking to was the Black Knight—rather, something akin to a prince of a distant land; a lord of a realm long gone. And that thought somehow made her sad because of how _distant_ he would be, and this time it would not just be his head that was unreachable to her. “For someone who lost, you ask too much,” she quickly dismissed her own thoughts, toning down the sudden sentimental feeling that emerged.

“Since I am here,” he gently gestured to her basket. “I was merely thinking that you are probably on shopping galore because this is the fifth time straight we encountered each other at the market.”

“Reasonable,” she commended, still with the same playful tone as ever. “But you lost again, Ares, because I’m not shopping. Practicing!” she made a twirl in front of him in a deliberate manner to feast on his defeat. “Are you one of those men who notice a woman with a basket in a market and quickly assume they are shopping?”

“Definitely not,” there was a faint, faint soft chuckle coming from his direction as he said that. “But thanks to the way I was raised, I become one of those who think it’s rude not to offer help when someone carries many things… or about to.”

“You want to take your revenge, huh,” she rolled her eyes.

“I do,” his response came quicker than lightning. The air between them changed as she smelled blood in his simple sentence; a vow made long ago, yet not forgotten. For the moment she was no longer the kind Ares who did not mind her braiding his hair. Gone was the Ares who had no problem dripping wet under the rain to help with an elderly couple’s cart, the Ares who just offered to carry her things. “I do. But not with you.”

She could just make another a light remark or two regarding the Black Knight’s wrath, but somehow the little correction at the end bellowed a signal of desperation rather than pure bloodlust that she decided to let Ares have his little own world. For a moment Ares was silent, only the atmosphere around him became so dark that his eyes looked dead. And she wondered if this was the Ares the mercenary would take to jobs, the Ares all the bandits, vagabonds and remnants of rebels would see before his sword bathed in their blood. After all, if you were dead you would not feel anything; and by dead she meant _him_ than any of these preys of Mystletainn… “Then train with me, Ares. Getting stronger and inhaling the fresh morning air at the same time. A win-win.”

He blinked. It was not that he did not realize the changing atmosphere between them, or her unusual silence. As intriguing as her offer was, he was more amazed that her simple lively lines easily cast away the looming clouds—it was him who just talked about not getting emotionally infested, and yet…

“I can infuse some energy in my movements. For that, I will need more power for steadier footing. And I’m sure you can use some stamina-improving tips!” she reasoned. “And perhaps that will better my swordplay too so that there will be more of a good news for idiots who approach me.”

“We can agree on that,” he concurred, recalling the kind of people who flocked in the bar during the nights—and his own crowd as well. He had seen her deflecting advances on numerous occasions, and how she held her ground behind those playful negative answers and gentle rejections. But sometimes the best diplomacy—based on his personal experience scaring away half of the bandits he fought so far—was firm words with a sharp sword.

“Oh, great! Let’s just do it. There’s a park where I go to practice every morning like this,” she hopped and tip-toed her steps, an endearing enthusiasm which somehow got to him. She hummed a tone, twirling again while making a gesture to stretch out a leg as if trying on its flexibility.

“Lene, wait.” And he could not hold it any longer. Not today at last, and he intended to make her know about it as he reached out to her. Her movements stopped as she let him turn her shoulders to face him, and those eyes reflected a bit of anxiety as well as a silent anticipating gesture. “You did not offend me,” he started, feeling her shoulders relaxing in his arm as he conveyed it. “… and thank you.”

“I’m not sure what for, but if you insist—“ her eyebrows hiked as she curiously eyed him back.

“Yes, I insist,” he cut her off, feeling cheeky knowing he would definitely lose this debate if she prolonged it—just as he did the others when she was the opponent. “So where is this secret training ground of yours?” he turned his heels to match her paces as her eyes sparkled, completely dissuading the vengeful overbearing atmosphere which nearly ate him alive. 

Defeat never felt _that_ good.


	6. Feel

He quietly followed a line down the stream. The sky was still rather dark as the sun had not graced the earth yet. Some birds tailed behind, chirping around him. His chest swell when he inhaled the freshness of morning air. His eyes were still adjusting to the velvet dark blue around him. An instance of those early mornings where he would take all the dirty clothes to wash at a nearby river without the jabbering of his curious comrades. It would be a moment that was truly his too; where his business was merely his and not just 'part of the job'. A moment where he could contemplate private belongings or a few mementos left to him from his destroyed family---silken handkerchiefs, small cravats tailored specifically for his little self, neckties bearing the crest of House Nordion.

Ares walked to the river. The flowing water gave him a moment of serenity, a rarity he cherished in silent joy because he knew it would be a luxury to obtain during the day. There would be blood rain in the afternoon; those marked as preys as Mystletainn began to feed. There would be sweat drops during the day when he engaged his fellow mercenary comrades for so-called friendly matches: some would throw him into a makeshift arena to face off with another guy who would tell him how good he was with the sword---yet in a tone that conveyed how pretty his bloodied face would look in a body bag. Some days he would evade the silly matches altogether. Some others, he would entertain them. In between of a yes and a no, sometimes he would leave his group in discreet; first because of fighting challenges addressed to him in unsavory letters, and second, for strolling around town to find a thing or two regarding the person he had been searching for... all along, his whole life, with all his determination.

And during the night he would either quietly outmatch himself through glasses of wine if not retreating to the room for sleeps he could not buy.

Ares scoped the water with a wooden bowl he carried in his laundry container, feeling satisfied as he felt how his muscles reacted and moved. He savored his secret training session---even if he would say so himself---feeling confident and ready day by day as his strength kept growing and his stamina improving.

_That Black Knight knows no fatigue. He is a lion thirsting for blood._

Ares mixed some perfume and essential oil he monotonously picked up at the market the day before. Lavender and fresh grass fragrance started attacking his senses as the cold water brushed against his sleeveless arms. His fists each held some fabric as he moved his arms together---brush, brush, brush, swipe, swipe, swipe the ends of the shirt against each other. Dip it again to the mix, wash it again, again, again, and again... until all was done. He wiped his forehead, looking at a pile of fresh laundry at his foot, now ready to be rinsed. A pang of disappointment surged from the bottom of his heart when a shaft of golden ray emerged from the sky. Now that the sun had risen, he had to go back where he was nothing but a hunting lion; not a hermit with a moment of peace to break away from the tempest raging inside of him.

 **+**   _Any news about the liberation army?_

_**-**  Why, Black Knight, this is so unlike you._

**+**   _I heard a young man is leading the movement now. Rumors said he is the son of wretched Sigurd... lord of Chalphy._

 **-**   _He was hailed as a hero and now people seem to share the same feelings toward his son. Do you know what they call him?_

 **+** _A murderer's son? ---_ sarcastic sharp smirk appeared as he unconsciously clutched a handkerchief in his cavalry pants' pocket. The embroidery of House Nordion faced his palm as his locked fist kept it safely as such. And he would not let go. Just like how in one age long gone someone clasped the handkerchief over his little palm. 

Oh, how he could feel the strength and perseverance emanated from that hand--bigger than his, veiny with some hidden callouses here and there due to sword practice. A firm and kind gaze fixed on him, whose head barely touched the person's waist. A soft falsetto voice confessed how the person would always be proud of his little self, and he, too would follow in the warrior's footsteps when the time came for it: protector of Nordion, wielder of Mystletainn. "But first, Ares," as the person clad in formal, regal velvet cape would say, "do not forget your milk, so you will be tall and strong like me..."

 **-**   _No, Black Knight, you fool. This kid was hailed a hero exactly for refusing to spill blood. They dubbed him as Light Inheritor, the prince imperial, Seliph._

 **+** _Light Inheritor?_ \--- his arm moved faster than the townsfolk's swelling chest to take a breathe. His eyes were burning, wild fire could be seen scorching every bit of a soul left in him, and the townsfolk shivered when as the Black Knight steadily turned into hellfire.  _What a lame joke. Light? Mine died seventeen years ago. Everywhere I went there was only darkness. My mother's hollow eyes, and eventually the dark sockets as she slowly changed into a living corpse. This Seliph---he shall die by my sword. And you---I can slice that tongue anytime. Taste it, fool. Swallowed words, bitter like an unending cruel winter. And he---will---_ panted breaths, limped body, sheathed Mystletainn. A stare of shock, a faint, faint apology. Something about the Black Knight not wanting to engage himself in useless murder, and how he actually understood the hollowing darkness which explained why he gave a chance to flee for anyone who was unfortunate enough meeting him in a dark alley and did not want to fight or became the prey of Mystletainn.

There was never a light, and in darkness, everyone carefully trod their paces. Including him. Including the Black Knight, and little Ares of Nordion who bit back his lips each time he felt he wanted to bawl until his skin was torn into pieces. The Ares who endured hunger as the former Lady Grahnye broke a dry yesterday bread in two---two pieces, both of them for his growing body, for today and the next day. 

... The Lady Grahnye who one day asked why he did not light a lantern. "Everything was so dark, Ares, where are you?" 

And then she exhaled. Passing out, to never inhale again.

He still recalled the damp soil at a modest cemetery where he begged people to bury her, resulting in Javarro picking up her lifeless body after one darted look at the menacing demon sword Grahnye pulled from under the bed for him. And where was this light? ...

Ares flinched. He brushed the wrong part and now his skin grazed under a sharp edge of a wild wood. Papercut-blood dripped out of the small blistered skin, and as he brought the wounded hand to his mouth, sucking it to stop the bleeding, sudden nausea loomed over him. So strong, so strong that he felt the need to lay down. He approached the wooden basket where his fresh, clean laundry was, as if every fiber in his being gasped for a savior. Flower fragrance brought him back to his senses and he gasped a sigh of relief; he swore some seconds prior he could smell blood. Strong, strong smell as if there was a pile of dead body around him, and on top of that... Mystletainn. And that was exactly why he looked forward to doing laundry: the feeling of being born anew every morning, the sense of absolution, and a renewed resolve to hunt down Mysteltainn's primary prey. And a moment of peace where he could feel everything coming back to him as he gazed nostalgically at the Nordion embroideries and his father's handkerchief ... With the tranquilizing sounds of water flow from the river, which remedied his shattered heart because of what he listened yesterday at the bar.

 _A traveling bard,_  he noticed, because his acquaintance dancer got a company. The bard served as a filler in between her scores, and unlike the raving crowd he had grown to be accustomed to during the other nights, the bard's elegy successfully turned the crowd quiet. Everyone had a longing expression on their faces, with some others could be seen nervously searching for a drink.  _A tale of bravery, as well as betrayal,_  the bard mused. A lyra in his hand, a shawl tied around his head, decorating the beautiful green hair as his clear voice began to fly... like the wind. 

_This is the story of a wounded lion. Formidable that he was, yet he perished in a death unbefitting for a warrior with a lauded name. Lionheart they called him; a lord of a realm in ruin. True to the heart, loyal like your left hand to your right. But alas---_

_STOP,_ his cry of pain was a cry in silence. Something pounded him from the inside as if his brain was about to fall out. He wanted to take this bard out for a fight. He wanted to break his lyra so this audacious elegy would stop. However the bard's melancholic gentle voice lulled him over, and he could barely stand as the Lionheart canto nearly came to and end.

_Thus the noble blood spilled over the earth. Desecrated was his body, war trophy sent to bark a warning. Little did they know it worked but for naught; the braves pressed, revered was his memory inside their hearts, for not a single knowing soul did not mourn for the Lionheart. Loose beautiful golden locks, closed eyes, smiling lips---a magnificent head both in life and death. Eldigan, Eldigan the Lionheart, true inheritor of the Crusader Hezul---_

"Hey, what happened to these braves you were talking about?"

"What happened? Ah, I am nothing but the wind. But like the wind, whispers humans make will eventually come to me. Before that, why don't you guys treat me with small expression of kindness? It's so cold out there, you know, and my voice nearly cracks that I can barely sing anymore. Come on, some food and wine for the poor bard before I release you from your misery?"

"Tch, this isn't fun at all. You did not release us from misery, if anything you are making us feel more vulnerable! Holy cow, I didn't even know I still had tears to spill."

"Hey, where the fuck is the dancer? Bring in the dancer! Now THAT is what I call as being released from misery!"

Ares rinsed the third shirt.  _You've got guts, Mister Bard,_ he reminisced how he mocked the odd artist when the latter shrugged and prepared to leave the bar.  _Now not only you give people bad mood, you also did not get paid. They want the dancer._

 _She will be late,_ the bard mused, unperturbed by the Black Knight's sudden change---stern questioning look, a hand ready to unsheathe the sword.  _What's the matter, young man? I did not do anything to her, that precious desert gem. What I meantis that she is probably drying her tears_   _right_ _now... like you are now._

 _I'm always up for a fight if that means shutting a blabber mouth,_ he shot the bard a threatening smile.  _I've got my honor when it comes to duels. Wouldn't be fair if I am armed and you are not. Sing to me this time, my fists will be the payment. I can show you what I meant._

 _Feel, young man. Feel. I advise you not get too carried away, otherwise you will waste your life thinking you are obtaining what you really, really want in this world while in reality you fail to see what lies ahead of you,_ the bard responded, did not feel threatened at all even though he already balled his fists and set Mystletainn aside.

_I am not easy to kill. The blood that will spill tonight will not be mine. I will not die without getting my revenge. Take me outside. Stop talking like you know everything._

_Ah, the beauty of the youth. Full of spirit, and hot-headedness. I don't think she will appreciate it when you come back here drenched in blood. I'm sorry, but I have business to attend to as well, you know? This is an adieu. Glad you enjoyed my 'Lionheart',_ the bard nodded, gestured to the stage and he reflexively tilted his head to follow the direction. Lene was back at the stage, performing brilliantly as ever. He did not miss the glistening lines around her eyes as light reflected on it. He cussed in silence---she had been crying, just like the bard said. The latter nodded sympathetically to him before heading outside. He still managed to catch the bard's subtle message conveyed to him, though--- _Take your own advice... Ares... Black Knight!_

Ares ran to catch up with the bard only to find him not there. A gust of wind delivering a spoonful of dust welcomed him instead, which felt biting as if he had just been slapped.

* * *

 

Ares looked into the wooden container. His own reflection stared at him, and he surrendered to the grassy surface of the ground after rinsing the last cloth piece in the pile. He wondered what was actually left in him that he could just... feel this much. The flowing water, the injury, the flower fragrance, the refreshing sensation as his body responded to the atmosphere mornings and laundries brought on him. How his senses awakened when he was faced with the possibility of Lene being in danger, and how his cuss that night was more directed at the bard---if he hurt her---and somehow, to himself, which he was too proud to admit. He wished she did not have to listen to the elegy so that her feelings did not shatter like everyone else's in that room. Yet when he caught trails of tears on her face, there was a feeling of relief somehow---and he was just way, way too ashamed to admit it:  _he was not alone._ She did not know it, and he prayed (ah, when did the last time he ever did that again?) that she would never know---but that very moment her emotions conveyed everything he was feeling. As if she was there on behalf of him, translating what was previously undecipherable even to himself, even if this one pertained his private affairs. That she  _got it._ And she cried for the 'Lionheart'. She cried for him too, in a way ...

Ares collected all his laundry, rolling his sleeves down and fixed his belt. His day waited to start as always, and as always too, he would have to postpone his personal sentiments until fate brought them together. Yes, them---he, the Black Knight, and the other young man, the Light Inheritor. He had so many questions, and Mystletainn had long been starving for the justice it never got. So until then, he had to endure this tempest. Swallow the food, but do not let it touch your taste buds. Because it would be ugly, and being overwhelmed caused us to lose our way in the process ...

"Mooorning!"

Ares stopped dead in his tracks. She was there, all smiles and cheerful as usual. Lene the dancer. Dressed in yet another subtle, modest gown without any bearing of the glamour and festivity a well-favored stage artists were usually noted for. Her green hair reminded him of the calming grass he just rested his body upon, and as always that hair was tied into a high ponytail and decorated with ribbons---a trademark about her which had grown into him, something he noted and could not get away from although he tried to. "Stalking me?"

"What? No!"

"Good. I've met too many idiots the other night," he replied coldly.

"If I was?"

There again, her session of battle of wits. Something he most likely could forward to in every encounter with her, and yet another thing he was unwilling to admit how  _pleasant_  each of them was. He did not know he  _could_ crack a joke if not because she engaged him. He had no idea how dances could be so invigorating if not because of being there on the nights she performed. He had no idea how a carefree smile could fuel his desire to live... and protect. And more importantly how he could be  _mad_ when someone invoked her name in an unsavory jesting manner.  _Feel._ How long since he even contemplated it? Like he said at that time---everything was dark, dark, dark... if not bleak with a smell of blood spill. However, she was...

"I don't think you are clumsy enough to ambush me," he mildly responded, towering over her as their paces met each other. The sun was getting higher and higher, and the heat, which he  _felt_ \---for some reason he did not want it to offend her senses the way it suddenly did his. His shadow cast over her, and his eyes accidentally caught hers as she stopped to smile. Again.

"Alright, here's an ambush," her eyes lightened, and he swore for a moment he could see the sun there. What was the point of trying to shadow her from the heat if she just became the sun itself? ... Now wait...

"An ambush told is not an ambush," he tried so hard fighting the little arrows around his mouth which attempted to force him to smile.

"I only said it's an ambush.  _You_ have no idea what kind of an ambush it is," she cheerfully countered. "Ah, are you doing laundry? Smells so good!"

"My laundry is not... breakfast," he drew his response slowly, word for word as he processed what she just said. 

_Noon already? Everything feels so clear._

"Sure it is not! Ahhh, I get it, Ares, you are hungry."

"I am not. ... Yet."

"You are."

"You are the one saying this pile smelled nice."

"Yes, because I can feel the lavender in there! Gods, you are so infuriating at times," she puffed, her hands were on her hips that he felt the urge to---

_\---lift her up. Take her riding. Sunbathing. Wouldn't it be nice to sail the grass under the sun? The laundry will be done drying too when we are done. I don't know, relaxing. Somehow that word seems to be there, spelled on her face. I've forgotten what relaxing even means, anyway._

"There, Lene, proves that you cannot ambush me," he mused, realizing the tempest just calmed down... no, it barely had a chance to start. That was something he would be fighting everyday---his own thirst for revenge, the unquenchable anger he had been harboring since he was a toddler: his aunt never returned to Nordion, the last sight of his father preparing the cross knights as their lifeguards to Leonster, his mother's erratic sobbing.

_Eldie... died... why are you asking so much of me? I'm already prepared to endure whatever it is you are actually thinking of me... her... as long as you return to us... to our son, Ares... why, Eldie? Why Sigurd..._

Thus the birth of the name that would serve a stain in his life, these seventeen years.  _Sigurd! The Murderer!_ as he would cry in silence, yet feeling puzzled as to why he did not feel happy when his mother whispered a thing or two about the rebels being executed in Belhalla. 

The nights when his mother could not affirm when he desperately tried cheering her up.  _Mother, that wretched Chalphy lord died, why don't you smile? Lord Father will be happy, won't he? Mother..._

"Ares?"

"Eh? Ah." He blinked when Lene waved her arm in front of him.  _I got it. Maybe I'm feeling so much because that dastard's son is still alive. Is that it, Mother? This rage, this anger I'm battling every night. Each time I'm changing into my sleeping garments, why am I so pained? Why am I imagining Mystletainn begging me to stop? If I... kill Seliph, this will be over, right? Mother..._

"Oh, I know! Let's find something to eat. I can't carry you if you pass out! Follow my lead, cavalry! I know all the nice things around town, you know? Whatever you want, just ask! Snacks? I'm the person to go to. Need some nice clothes? You bet. Desserts? I know everything! And I guarantee you, the places I go to serve nice food and will not drain your wallet! Sooo, onward! To victory!"

"Right, right."

"Ah, you are following! Nice. So I know you are not a living breathing statue."

"That you can't carry me if I pass out. You are petite."

"They said the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Ares. And to get there, through the fifth rib. It's very convenient in this size, you know."

"That is very true," he nodded in all seriousness. "However, you have to be careful so that he did not cut your room for movement. If cornered, force him to make a way for you. Forget the fifth rib, thrust the left chest where the heart is. Evade his dominant arm first, and I guarantee you, even the most experienced swordsman can be taken off guard."

"... Ares."

"... I---darn it, my apologies," he quickly retorted. "It's just..."  _if the Liberation Army advanced here, if **he** made a movement, if this area was to bathe in blood, the least I can do is---_

"You are experienced."

Her soft reply was out of his prediction. "Sort of. I needed to fend off for my late mother too. And you know, my job is..." he did not finish his sentence on purpose.

"... I mean, you sound like you've been in such situation often, Ares. And I couldn't help but wondering if... the other person's sword reached you out first someday? It's not that I'm calling you weak or anything. I don't like seeing people come home bruised and bloodied, and despite knowing your... job---"

"If his sword could reach me," he reassured her. "This Mystletainn had seen wars even before we were born into this world. It won't just crack easily."

"Yes, but youare not Mystletainn."

_Ah..._

"It's alright, Lene," he tried to keep his tone as normal and flat as possible. "Because of course what I just told you is not the only way to move a sword. And before you protest," he caught her frowning expression, "I am not offended. Rather, it's been a while since people were worrying for me, so perhaps I had a difficulty to process it."

"Then let me help you carrying that."

"My sword again? If you want to reach out to me you can just ask, you know, no need to demonstrate that you can swing this sword---"

"Then let me help you with your laundry! It smells so nice! If I carry it with me, the scent will fly over to you and you can  _feel_ how nice it is too. And then you will admit I am right!" she patted his shoulder---AGAIN---before giving out a hearty laughter.

"It is rather heavy," he politely declined.

"And that is exactly why!" she grabbed his laundry, laughing triumphantly as they steered their heels to go back to town.

"What an odd robbery," he commented, reached for a side of the wooden container to carry the laundry with her. "Rob something more precious than this, then."

"Do not challenge me like that, you are not ready."

"Well, since you talked a lot about snacks..."

"Ah, decided then. Yes, I will take it!"

"Thought so," he smirked.

"Ah, did you think of bribing me with desserts?! What do you think I am, a child?"

"Yes," his replies was flat.  _And no._

"You are not the only one who can bribe! Let's have tea!" She gestured, reaching his other arm with her free arm. Motioning him to follow her direction, she pointed at a wooden basket with her face, somewhere by the river. "Sometimes I come here to have outdoor breakfast. Then I will practice here too. You like it here too, don't you? So peaceful. So calm and refreshing. And not many people are here as well, so I can practice freely without restraint unlike at the park. A beautiful scenery like this easily inspires you as it makes you feel a lot of things, right? And I told you, artists, no matter what their preferable style is, do appreciate inspiring things. And that includes me! I want to give the best performance no matter what kind of a night it is."

_Oh..._

"I live at the outskirts, you know. Not really far from the marketplace. It's... cheaper to dock there," she went on, feeling a bit embarrassed. "The location isn't so great, and my apartment complex is already too small for maximum flexible movements so I'd rather practice outside. But I have my freedom this way."

"So, this robbery escalates into an abduction," Ares still had that disinterested look on his face, yet his tone changed a bit. There was a sublime laughter under that flat line, and she seemed to be catching it.

"I'm robbing your time. Whose fault is it again to challenge me?" she laughed again, and he tailed her to the intended place without asking anymore questions. Clear blue sky appeared above their heads and he wondered where all his tempests went. "But the bonus is, I can try formulating the movements I've been wanting to try. That's right! You can be the judge of my dancing! Exclusively for you, as it is not out yet! Do tell me if it's weird or not as energetic as ever. I can use all the inputs I gather, you see."

 _Fragrant jasmine,_ he contemplated as he sipped into the tea.  _How nourishing. I... thought I can't... feel?_

"Hey, Lene---"

"Oooh, you caught me. Thanks for your tip, I can put your valuable  _thrust straight to the chest_ into action," she smiled sheepishly as his watchful eye understood she tried to capture the swordfight he just taught into the dance. "Actually, the bard from last night..."

 _Gods, please no. And not her too, she shouldn't be sad like I was. And moreover..._ "Yes?"

"He was wrong about something, I'm sure of it," Lene fidgeted, carefully weaving her words like colorful beaded necklace which harmoniously complimented each other. "The Lionheart. He... he died a hero. The tune was very sad because of course he deserved a better ending. But at the same time..."

".... Yes?" he could not go on. He could not. His voice was held in his throat as if someone tried to smother him.

"The Lionheart was not this pathetic loser we should be grieving about. Rather, I think we must preserve his memory in the way he would appreciate... don't you think?" she smiled at him as she was handing him a bread. "We have to honor his spirit by not forgetting what he fought for. Friendship, peace, and an honorable responsibility to rectify what was wrong. I'm sure he had reasons. If he would just charge blindly, the world would be plunged into chaos as the people around him made up Jugdral's most powerful political powers. He... tried to believe in something and he did not lose that until the end. That is... admirable. And I think that... what made me feel sad so much. Because he actually foresaw what others did not. And he was very wise in his actions."

"They killed him, Lene," the bread nearly broke in his steeled grip. "What faith? It was gone."

"What if he..." she bit into her share of bread. "... believed in the future, Ares? That he was willing to sacrifice himself because he knew it  _felt_ right. Because even if he would not be around to see it, he was willing to bet on all his chances. I just think that... he felt strongly about something and never lost that very feeling he had. He was a noble one, not a weak loser. He did not... abandon his country when it needed him."

"Lene," Ares could only mutter her name, which now shivered in his mouth. His chest felt so heavy he could barely speak. The night when some people cried. The night when  _she_  cried. The night when  _he_ did out of despair, in silence, in anger, in desperation. The morning he waited for the typical depressing tempest to engulf him and how he would busy himself with the mercenary tasks to contain it. And now...

What a magnificent robbery...

"More tea?" she was still unaware of the messy crumbling pieces the mighty Black Knight was dealing with at the moment.

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, please. This breakfast is very flavorful and I'm surrounded by a lot of feelings. It's almost overwhelming."


	7. Wrecked

The sun shone brightly right above their heads as their horses made another stroll. Hotter than usual, the ground felt melting as the sky scorched everything in between. Yied Desert was never an easy terrain to sail forth, yet there were brave, if not desperate souls who were willing to try on anything if that would mean an improved condition or a ticket to freedom.

Ares scaled his surroundings with a sharp gaze. He had been through this desert a couple of times, starting with the silent, tearful farewell from Leonster after the situation went out of hand as Thracia extended its talon over his mother's hometown. He and Grahnye moved places afterwards, trying to seek for some solace and safety a single mother and a young son would wish for, and only after burying his dead mother little Ares came to learn about what it meant to survive the world.

Left only with Mystletainn and a bit of provision consisting of whatever Grahnye could scrap before her death, little Ares found himself cowering in a dark alley, eagerly waiting for leftovers about to be thrown away into the dumpster. Some days the famous restaurant's chef would take a pity on him and let him clean the plates. Some others, the other chef would scowl and shooed him as if he was a rabid dog. For little Ares, however, either one or another, cowering in a dark alley meant loneliness if not fear. Life course had a cheeky way to make his family miserable, as he would believe, yet at the same time it would always find a way for an unexpected twists and turns. The bad chef—as his little self would dub the temperamental chef—just happened to carry on as usual, throwing leftovers and shooing him away.

Only that time he was just very hungry, hungrier than usual, and the chef did that with a metal stick normally used for arranging coals as they are burning in a hearth. As little Ares held on tightly to Mystletainn and endured a beating, he learned that he could cope with hunger and thirst—a human's basic needs, better than other children. His mother had told him a thing or two about the blessings due to inheriting a crusader's major blood, but for the first time his actual tale of survival began. He had tried sheltering himself in the old house where Grahnye docked them in for the last time, but the landlord immediately kicked him out, mentioning a thing or two about hiking rent fee his mother could not pay as her condition deteriorated and made it even harder to find work. Bathing the rain and eating the wind, little Ares juggled between nurturing his anger against Sigurd—the man who was supposed to take everything away from his family—and looking at Nordion embroideries, mementos of the good life that was lost, questioning if all the knightly values his father proudly spoke of were ever worth it. That, if not digging through Grahnye's possessions to find out for something that could be pawned or sold for bread. He stopped doing that since the last merchant accused him of counterfeiting after the other did not dare to market mementos "of the old era" for fear of being accused of subversive acts.

Needless to say, little Ares had no idea what those meant at that time. All he could see was darkness, bleak, bleak blinding darkness wherever he went, as people's rejection and scoffing kept accompanying him no matter what. After nearly a week surviving on trashcan bread and river water, little Ares came back to his pity alley hoping his savior chef would be there.

And he miscalculated. His palms started to hurt for clutching on the Mystletainn, the one and only possession Grahnye ever firmly instructed him to not let go no matter what and how grave their situation would be.  _The Mystletainn is Nordion. Nordion is Mystletainn. We are because it is, and we perish when it does,_ his mother would say. In a calmer, softer voice, however, she would also tell him that there would be a time when he would grow up into a fine man, noteworthy of his own prowess that he could wield the Mystletainn like his father... or the ancestor Crusader Hezul before them. And as she lulled him to sleep, with blurry eyes she would whisper "Until that time comes... we must endure."

Little Ares was tired. Tired, tired, tired. He wished he was someone else, although he could not picture himself to be anyone else but Master Ares of Nordion, son and heir to Lord Eldigan the Lionheart and Lady Grahnye. However that was more than he could endure, and thinking Mystletainn would be forgotten and rot like a useless metal junk drove him to take a stand.

Little Ares could not really process what happened in that fateful day. The customer heard the commotion and rushed outside—a rough man with a bunch of arrow heads neatly tucked in his quiver, exuding a different image compared to typical upperclass patrons who tended to frequent the restaurant. The rough-looking man pulled him to stand up, and as little Ares expected him to wrinkle his nose because of how dirty and ugly he looked, the man glanced at the other side.

And so it happened. Conversation about the sword. About Mystletainn. And for the very first time in his life, little Ares found pride under the shambles of what was left of his soul to tell the rough-looking man that  _yes,_ it was his sword, passed down for generations. A keepsake of his father, entrusted by his mother. And  _no,_ he did not want a pity if that would mean parting from the Mystletainn.

Little Ares did not expect the man to just accept all his explanations—if they even could be called as such. The rough-looking man calmly gestured to the chef, "You will throw these away anyway, let the boy have it." It happened faster than lightning; his head still felt fuzzy because of the hunger and a balled fist he was previously sure could end his miserable life right away. Yet he was still there, and he thought he was hallucinating when he caught a sight of Mystletainn's faint glimmer from the corner of his eye. As he struggled to get up to reach for Mystletainn, he felt the pain started to subside. He blinked, but Mystletainn returned to its initial state—a silent witness.

The birthmark on one of his upper shoulder felt biting for a little bit. He had experienced it once, when he nearly fell from a tree he climbed as a kid. At night when Eldigan chastised him for being so careless, he brought up the subject, and his father went silent before responding that it was their crusader ancestor's way to alert them of a danger. That they ought to have been in a perilous situation, so their Holy Blood prepared to protect them.

In the upcoming years little Ares—now just Ares, if not with the titular  _Black Knight_  he was notoriously known for—would learn to be surprised by many things. Many, many things. How the rough-looking man took him along with a mercenary's caravan convoy, mentioning a thing or two about making money and how, under his tutelage so to speak, little Ares would learn what it meant to be a man—something his late mother "never got the chance to teach." 

When little Ares contested because she would always make sure the image and teachings of the late Eldigan was carved in his soul, the rough-looking man only smirked and mumbled a "later, when you can hold your liquor."

As life went on, Ares had known not only how to hold his liquor, but also the smell of blood and sometimes, its taste when he fed his blade. Moreover, he also understood what the rough-looking man was all about—mercenary jobs, swords for hire, fighting for people who either would not or could not because of reasons. He also got to know the rough-looking man's name—Javarro, a ranger who could shoot someone dead before that person was able to exhale a breath.

Their journey eventually brought them to Darna, and Ares learned to bury Leonster deep in his memories as he did Nordion. It was over—the age of innocence was gone, and the very night he turned eighteen, Javarro mentioned a thing or two about making him a successor. Ares faced his second baptism after his first as the heir presumptive of the Lionheart as well as the next wielder of Mystletainn. Confidently, absently tucking the demon sword into his belt, he felt his spirit soar as their small-yet-strong group made their way to cross the Yied. Exhausted faces gasped in his right and left, and they stalled longer than intended to be because the need for water caused even the loudest to falter. When one of the senior members nudged him asking why he did not look perturbed, Ares simply glanced away and stoically responded, "I am used to it. Thirst, hunger... I've been to hell and back."

And now his idle journey made him reminiscing those days. He did not think that anything had changed from that very day; their group comfortably settled in Darna because its distance with other powerful political powers made it rather a lawless land where might was right. And such condition meant gold mine for mercenary jobs. Yied was never a tame terrain, and these days people rather took the matter into their own hands than having to cross paths with Grannvale Empire or its vassals and extended tentacles. Travant of Thracia also did not bother much with the Yied after getting what he wanted some fifteen, sixteen years ago, apparently.

"I am impressed, young man. The climate is harsh, yet you are riding with that poker-faced expression of yours," a voice caught his attention. This was the mission they received from Darna Castle's Count Bramsel, a vassal of the Empire and de facto ruler of Darna. He filled his life with mostly pleasure and pleasing the Empire, but as much as Ares  _actually_  resented unsavory rich people, Bramsel would do little to nothing to meddle with the group... or jobs they were tasked for. And perhaps it was safer this way, he mused, thinking what calamity a fool with power could cause. Just like one which befell his father...

Ares locked his memories safely in the Pandora Box in his head. Didn't he promise himself a decade ago when he began this new life, one as the Black Knight? And out of the people in the world, opening up to a client—let alone  _this client_ —would be the least thing he was willing to do even if the world was to end the next day. "Well, Bishop, I don't need my face to ride a horse," he replied simply. He wondered if things had  _actually_ changed and  _he_ was the only one who had not—the Loptyrian Cult, forced into hiding and hunted down like open season for their involvement with the previous dynasty, now resurfaced as their favors were sought by Grannvale's heir presumptive, Prince Julius. Here was one Ares was supposed to free from imprisonment at the Yied to be escorted for an audience with Bramsel before making a journey to the Empire for a rendezvous with Julius and Emperor Arvis. Ares laughed sarcastically in silence because he  _knew_ Bramsel would lavishly welcome this Loptyrian bishop in order to have his name beautifully phrased and praised in return at the capital of Grannvale.

The Loptyrian bishop laughed before ending it with a short cough. "That's what decades of imprisonment did to you. Can't even laugh without feeling like my lungs are breaking," he nodded, sipping some water from the leather vessel stashed in the horse satchel. "What's your secret?"

"As you said so yourself, Bishop," Ares replied indifferently, "time did things to you."

"True, true," the Loptyrian bishop nodded. "Your ace truly is remarkable."

"We put our sword where the money is," Javarro smirked. "And the Black Knight acts, not chats."

They rode again in silence for a while when a battle cry wrecked the day. "What's that?!" the Loptyrian bishop gazed around anxiously, reflexively trying to reach for a tome that was not there. He made an annoyed  _tch!_ sound, completely forgetting the authorities confiscated all his belongings and tomes when the sect was being prosecuted. The other mercenaries grabbed their weapons, trying to out their assailant and attempting to locate the source of the voice before their already-hellish journey turned into a nightmare.

"Some folks just don't like you, I guess," with the same unperturbed indifferent tone, Ares responded as he quickly reached for the Mystletainn at his side. "Do not let your guard down. Stay in formation."

"Who would have thought," the bishop spat. "And sure you guys will do something about it?"

"We will do what the money dictates us to do. So it's a yes," Javarro was the one answering. He nodded at the Black Knight before giving out instructions to the others with hand signals. "Ares, vanguard."

"Understood," the Black Knight gave a slight nod. Mystletainn was fully unsheathed this time, thirsty for blood as ever. "You over there!" he bellowed, instilling deep fear in the hearts of his opponents. Some mercenaries even jolted as he shouted, and without further ado Ares commanded his horse to run as he threw Mystletainn in one powerful single-rotation swing. Mystletainn successfully landed deeply in some poor axe-wielder's chest. As the sword glistened with blood, Ares got his mount to jump and kicked the dying axe-wielder right across his upper torso.

"... Wew," even the bishop was made speechless by the devastating attack.

Mounted, Ares looked upon the axe-wielder, who was now desperately gasping for breath. "Give me back my sword." Dismissive, he mercilessly pulled Mystletainn off the assailant's chest, prompting a nerve-chilling agonizing cry of pain. "Listen. Before I release you out of your misery..." his low tone carried a forceful diplomacy, signaling an offer that could not be refused. "How many of you are out here? You just want the bishop, or is there something important I have to know about?"

Cackled sounds of life force slowly slipping away from its body... followed by hoarse, sarcastic laughter before it broke into a miserable cough. "If you know anything... anything at all..." the dying axe-wielder whispered as he tugged on the Black Knight's cape, "you would not..."

"I would not what? Answer me, scoundrel!"

"... Scoundrel? Am I... or are you, Black Knight...?"

Ares stayed silent on top of his horse. In his last moment, their assailant chose to curse him than anything else. And it was more of a question than cursing, the latter being what he was mostly used to. He was aware what waited for him the moment he traveled with the mercenaries. He knew the consequence of living a life as one, only swearing he would survive until the day came when he could avenge Eldigan by slaying Sigurd's offspring. Still...

"The fucker's dead, Ares. You succeeded. Return to formation," Javarro broke the silence. Ares nodded, galloping to get back to the line, slower than the time he moved his steed to launch that ferocious attack. His shoulder-length locks hid his questioning expression beneath as his mind tried to decipher what just happened: someone he could barely call a fighter. Otherwise, why the battle cry when he was alone, if not a cry of desperation, a willingness to throw one's life away? And as powerful as he was, there was a considerable distance between the point where he lunges the Mystletainn and where the axe-wielder stand. Ares' initial intent was a surprise attack, because if he was about to act as a vanguard, then all he needed would be an opening so the other group could charge in.

Ares brushed Mystletainn up and down, feeling its power surged all over him. Blood. His sword would be fed, yet at the same time he felt some kind of distaste coming from the sword. Like a hungry person who begrudgingly ate what was served, or someone who spitted out the food because of feeling disgusted. Without realizing it himself, Ares rested his hand over Mystletainn's blade part, weirded by the cold sensation it gave him this time.

_Do you... hate it, Mystletainn?_

"You have to fight," as if knowing his mind had wandered elsewhere, Javarro knocked on his senses. "What did I teach you, Ares? Feelings will get you nowhere. That one would have killed you if you did not. Anyone in your situation would have attacked first."

"... Would they?"

"Ares?"

"... Never mind."

"Perhaps it is just impossible to be so young yet so powerful," the bishop chimed in.

"Just worry your own head, bishop. My boy will go back to the usual killing business when he has to," Javarro quickly interrupted. "As long as you land at the castle, what's the problem?"

"That is certainly true," the bishop concurred, "but you need to be on guard. Some people will not give up unless they are dead, and sadly are desperate enough to keep trying... which gets them killed in the first place," he sipped some water again and coughed after. "Dastard heat."

"Probably justice is worth it, Bishop," Ares spared a sarcastic feral smirk. Justice. Justice, justice, justice. Suddenly he thought of himself and the justice he dreamed Mystletainn to deliver. What if something similar happened to him? That he grew old without having the chance to bathe in the blood of Eldigan's murderer? And what if he was desperate enough to charge against Seliph like this—should he press on, or retreat to wage on his luck for another chance? True knight like his father would know no retreat, that he could imagine. But what if...

"Then what about mine, lad?" the Bishop answered.

_Then what about Sigurd's son, Ares?_

He wondered if the excessive heat caused him to start losing his mind because he pictured Mystletainn chastising him. "And what of it, Bishop?" he fetched his own water container this time, taking a generous gulp to tone down the heat wave effect.

"Now now, Ares. This is not the time for debating ideals," Javarro cut in. "That is not part of the job. Let the elites vomit in their mouths for this. We just need to do what is tasked."

"Th... that's right! If you have time for that, lad, you better have time to get ready for battle!" the Loptyrian bishop quickly added. "You guys are hired because of your clean track record in regards to always finishing the job. No question is asked as long as the money is paid forward and the plan is clear."

"Ride first," Javarro nudged him. "Perhaps being tasked as a vanguard again will truly clear your mind this time. Trust your sword. If faced with danger you will just move without thinking. I thought I caught you saying you did not need your face to ride a horse? Do you need your mouth to swing a sword?"

"Definitely not," Ares muttered under his breath. If Javarro could spare a moment of pride as far as his person was concerned, then it would be about and with the clients. True that he was not the most amiable conversant to be around, and never was it to be his intention from the very start. Take the job. Swing the sword. See how it is done. Grab the money... yet being chastised in front of a client still brought him a shame as if he just weaseled his way out of the contract.

"Then get going. Desperate people are never satisfied until they are dead," the bishop scoffed. "The problem is, they will take us down with them as well."

Ares made a move without comment. Clicking his tongue to command his horse, he started traversing the area as two bow-fighters tailed to help with the scouting. "Clear," he motioned a hand signal and the group moved again, following his footprints. They were heading closer to Darna, only needing to pass through a ruin with an old oasis before arriving at the gate. Now that they had reached the stony ruin, horses were stopped to drink as their riders descended to fill water containers. Although Darna was close, nobody wanted to risk anything because Yied's heat was unforgiving like that.

"Do not let your guard down again," Javarro patted his shoulder, and Ares could hear the clicking sounds of gold coins as the former left him to unwind. Glancing from above his own shoulders, Ares shook his head, feeling a pang of sarcastic irony because the others were doing exactly that, enjoying their grand payment. He never let Mystletainn out of his sight, determined to keep it within reach as his father taught him. 

 _Keep what is important to you close. After all, what is knighthood, if not with a sense of purpose? If not like this_ —Eldigan unsheathed Mystletainn in a god-like speed, much to little Ares' awe— _then_   _be ready for this,_  suddenly Eldigan moved Mystletainn into the grasp of his left hand.

"Take it from me, Ares. Try it, come on. Trust me. Trust your father, for I will not let anything hurt you. Anything... including myself." Star-struck little Ares gasped adoringly at the Lionheart's undeterred movement. He ran forward to snatch the sword, but Eldigan simply dodged. Little Ares found himself backtracked as he managed to only catch a wind, with Eldigan's fist waiting at his nose. "I am teaching you responsibility. If for some reason you are disarmed, get ready for another plan."

"My my, Eldie. That is too early for Ares."

"Ah, Lachesis. There is no such a thing as an early chivalry," his father smiled. "Because he will grow into a knight. If he only gets to know about the power he is about to inherit and not the grave responsibility as well, this boy's head will be all over the clouds."

"And what's with the fistfighting?"

"About that," the Lionheart ruffled his cub's mane, "a knight must be prepared for anything."

"Eldie, you are still... way too Eldie," Aunt Lachesis would affectionately squeezed his father's cheeks to shut him up, with the latter gasped before sharing a laughter. One of the occasions where he could enjoy an evening together with the two, at least before his mother came to get him ready for tea before the atmosphere to tense again, ended with Aunt Lachesis retreating sheepishly as always.

Ares closed his eyes. How peaceful it would be... to come to this oasis together with his family, an intact family living in nothing but blissful happiness. Yied was an unforgiving terrain, but he could picture his father's enthusiasm being dragged out for extra training. The temple ruins gave a rustic yet mysterious vibe about it, and he could picture his mother taking a cover from the sun as she laid down near the water source with a picnic basket nearby. And perhaps with such merry atmosphere, she and Aunt Lachesis would get along...

Something rudely awakened him from his reverie—an intent to kill. An unmasked vengeful aura, and he wondered if either someone was all-out determined to kill him, or this was yet another brash fighter wanting to pick a fight. Either way, that person would end up dead, as any unfortunate challenger would after a brief meeting with Mystletainn.

Ares rose. A stone in the size of an adult's fist served as a welcome gesture, and he dodged in a similar motion as Eldigan did to evade a close counter with him back, back then. Ares shouted a warning against the rest of the group, who hurriedly reached for their weapons after spreading around in a ruckus manner because of the oasis. A knight must be ready for anything—

_... What if I... am no knight, Father?_

"Give back what you took from us! I hate you! I hope you all burn in hell!"

"Feh. Why wait until then? I can SHOW you hell!" Javarro quickly notched an arrow, silencing whoever-soul who just cussed at him.

Another stone. Ares rushed to Javarro as his arrow found another target in a haste. Before another silence, he managed to catch a glimpse of the things their group was being shouted at, though— _why did you let them take my child?! It's just a child, take me instead! Take the money, anything, but not my child!_

"Wha—"

_"Please spare me some bread, Sir. If not for me, please take a pity of my child..."_

His mind flew to one of those moments when the former esteemed Lady of Nordion clasped her hands, beseeching for a little bit of humanity that was left in the midst of a burning Leonster.

_"... Do your worst to me. I do not care. If being with a disgraced noble consort is your thing, at least my son is having a fever and he needs warm food."_

The thoughts of his mother taking off her clothing article, one by one, and how she threw him out of the room so he would not have to see somehow flashed in his head.

_"I really do appreciate your kind intention to propose, but if you are still unsure of adopting Ares..."_

The moment when a 'kind uncle', as he dubbed it, would routinely drop by to leave some food. After his mother's rejection, however, he stopped coming, and so did their food.

_"Please, he is only a child, please spare him, I'll find a way to pay for what he took, so please..."_

That time when she begged Thracian soldiers to stop shackling him for stealing off of a military barrack's supply warehouse as foods only became scarce after the annexation of Leonster.

"Hey Black Knight, behind you!"

Ares dodged again. He could feel something was tossed at his feet, and before he knew it, he instinctively seized the idle Mystletainn and lunged forward. Soft gasps of breath could be heard from behind the rock where he thrust, and with it began the blood rain. Warm red liquid poured all over him like water coming out of the fountain, and a body went limp before him like a sack. He reflexively kicked the body to turn it upside as how he was taught to check on kill counts.  _That way they will not reach to you easily if they are still alive and determined to take you down,_ as Javarro would say.

"... my baby sister—give her back, you... monster," the slain whispered before becoming still.

Ares gasped. Only then everything became visible to him—the blood, the body, and so did whatever was thrown at him at that time—a toy horse. A wooden toy horse, which was way simpler and made of low-quality wood compared to the one he used to have in Nordion. His mother's desperate begging to spare him haunted his head again, exact same words mirroring those of the people he just killed.

_He is only a child..._

"... The castle is only two hundred meters away," Ares spoke slowly as he dragged the bloodied Mystletainn with him. "I believe this is the last batch of assailants so far. And even if it is not, you should just ignore them and head to the castle. There is nothing to be proud of fighting them."

"Great to see you back at your feet. The job is done, my boy," Javarro patted his shoulder again. "See, Bishop? Put him into action and see how the sword chose better than talking. That's our Black Knight."

"This isn't a job. It's  _murder,_ " Ares mumbled as he mounted again.

"You are true to words indeed, Commander," the Loptyrian bishop remarked, "however, perhaps it is indeed a challenge to be so strong yet so young at the same time."

He gestured at the Black Knight, who galloped his horse as if racing the Devil himself.

* * *

 

"Nice to have you here! Nobody can light a party like our best girl here," a tall woman giggled as she combed her hair down and smoothed her dress. Her other two female company were busy preparing for a small bonfire as the other one referred as the best girl came up carrying a tray of seasoned skewered meats, ready to be grilled.

Best Girl put down her tray. Sprinkling more seasoning and some olive oil, she shared the tall woman's laughter. "Ah, nothing beats a girl's night out with good food! Stupid men think ladies survive on morning dew..."

"... and do not even fart," the other girl chimed in as she finished setting up the woods. The ladies responded with light  _yes, true, true!_ and laughed together as they began arranging the food to grill.

"If men are not stupid, then they aren't men," the best girl sighed, igniting fire.

"Awww, Lene. Don't be that harsh. The majority of them make up your crowd of admirers," the tall woman commented, and they laughed again.

Lene smirked. "I wish I could be proud of it, but no. Admiration can be scary."

"Is there nobody that catches your fancy? Like, at all?"

"Yeah, right? To think she is practically drowning in flower bouquets almost every night!"

"The regular patrons, you mean? Then no. Besides, I made it clear that I will not be engaging in personal liaison with them," Lene responded. "Shit—why won't the fire start again?"

"It is scared of you and your temper," the tall woman joked.

"Wish it would have worked with the scary admirer ones," Lene whispered, hugging herself unconsciously as she said that.

"Then perhaps the one she fancies is neither a regular audience nor one of the guys who queues to send flowers backstage," one of the girls who set up the bonfire muttered absently. "Come to think of it, there are a couple of them, right? They come when the dances were performed but never bothered to worship her like the others. You see, Sir Javarro or whatever the name is again—"

"What? But Adela, he's like, old enough to be my uncle!" she gasped. "And you are too naïve if you think he is not wild like the others. It's written on his face."

"You CAN tell a pervert from their face?" the woman who was addressed as Adela laughed too. "Wish I had your superpower then. Would be convenient for all the women in the world, huh?"

"Then what about the other one," the tall woman silkily continued. "The Black Knight." Soft gasps easily fished out of the ladies' lips as their friend mentioned the name. As if foreseeing this reaction was bound to happen, she quickly retorted, "Come on. That guy is handsome to the bones. And he is definitely not old. It's not a secret people are trying to seek for his favor now."

"I thought he truly was untouchable," Lene murmured.

"He  _is_ ," her tall friend corrected, "figuratively and literally."

"He is actually not," somehow Lene found a flickering fire to defend him. "I mean—he is a human being. And he is actually kind. Don't you notice how well-mannered he is whenever he comes?"

There was a pause before Adela broke in. "You understand him so well huh? ... Wait. Come to think of it, Lene is the only person who manages to get warmly acquainted with him right now. Aha, she is jealous!"

"He is not my boyfriend!" she shouted at Adela, before moving to the bonfire. "Crap, ignite, you fool—"

"Then I guess better use this opportunity to escape and save myself," Adela laughed cheerfully as Lene stuck a tongue at her. "And you better try harder with the fire, Lene! We are fetching more ingredients and the tea now, and I bet Black Knight-ing topic will warm this cold and lonely night."

"Shush now," red-faced, Lene threw a leaf at Adela.

"Tsk, Adela," the tall woman sternly cut in... until her eyes gleamed again. "First thing first, you should specify which fire. This one, or that one with a black cape? In the heart, or... in the pants? Hahaha!"

"Aaah, I hate you all! I'll ignite this so you guys can BURN when you get back!" Lene brought her hands to her face as her friends warmly waved a temporary goodbye, busying themselves with whatever barbecue components they forgot to bring in one take. 

Sighing, Lene rose, walking up to the pile of wood again. It still would not ignite, and she was still recovering her red face to fetch her friends for some help. The air was pretty cool, she thought, suspecting of heavy rain to follow a scorching afternoon. Her thoughts flew to the Black Knight, and she felt so embarrassed about it. "I bet he will laugh at their ridiculousness too," she grumbled, walking back and forth, frustrated by the bonfire that would not light and worrying the well-prepared skewered meats.

"Who will?"

"Aaaah!" she shrieked out of reflex when a towering shadow approached her. "Intruder! Destroyer of peace! White clouds killer! Oh yes, my sword! Sword—craaap, I left it at the apartment!"

"Wait, how can one kill... clouds? Eh, never mind—"

"Ares!!" she gasped as the towering figure came closer.

"Yes," he nodded. "I really did not mean to trespass. My apologies. I truly did not see anything I should not. Again, my apologies for unnerving you."

"Didn't see what you shouldn't? What do you think you shouldn't see?! What the hell did you just think, or do you think  _I am unworthy_ of seeing?"

"Definitely not—I mean, I do not see why anyone would not—"

"So you WANT to see me!"

"I—yes, I do?" Ares stared dumbfounded. As if realizing something, he clasped his hands over her shoulders. "Because we won't be talking otherwise. Still, I startled you. Do you want me to go?"

"Actually, no—"

"I mean it. One rejection from you, and I will be gone for the night."

"Ares..."

"You can say no to me as like. One word, I will stop. And you shouldn't feel guilty about it."

"W-why are you talking as if we are—I... okay, don't let Maeve know about this—"

"... As if... what now? And Maeve who? Knowing about what?"

"I—don't—mean—"

"Your face is red."

"It has been since before you showed up!"

"Something happened? The climate? Bug bites? Training?"

"Nothing! And then you suddenly showed up and the fire would not start and and and—"

"This fire?" he gestured to the pile of woods, in which she could only nod while keeping her face down to hide the beet color. Ares walked to the fire, igniting what she could not. "You should have piled the woods in reverse. They were rather wet, so keep the dry part upward. Did you not let them dry first after picking them up?"

She shook her head. Shyly. "How do I know?! I am not a mercenary."

"You don't need to be one if you want to know."

"What if it's because I am not you."

"Alright, if that's the case, then I can help you next time."

"You mean it?"

"Sounds like I am held hostage by my indirect un-involvement in your case."

"It's not like I'm forcing you at all. Besides, we do this a couple of times already."

"So a group of defenseless women have a night-out with grilled food in which none of them knows how to set," he stole a quick glance at this pocket watch. Ten o'clock. He should probably arrive sooner. But after the incident at 'the job', somehow he felt he had to steady himself again before doing some social contact pretending like a normal human being. And the best way to do that was by engrossing himself in solo training. He talked to Mystletainn, cussed it, talked to it again... rinse and repeat. He oddly thought the sword also came right back at him in a way, and he felt a bit lighter because of that. However...

"Yes, precisely," she stuck a tongue at him.

"Do not tongue me again—never mind," Ares quickly sighed before his response went out of hand, and he thanked the gods this time because his reaction prompted her confused look as he was busy beating himself up in his head because it did not take much of her to fish out his reaction. "I think I should not... prolong my presence right now. Be safe for the night, Lene," he respectfully nodded at her. Something immediately crossed his mind. "Or should I be back for your group? I can take a cart if we agree on a time. Only if you ladies would allow me, though."

Escorted by the Black Knight back in town for the night? My my, her friends would be dead  _wild_ about it.  _Eh, what am I thinking? He is just being sensible and courteous, any man with a bit of sense left in him would feel the need to do the same,_  Lene berated herself in silence.

Sadly, the most common, sensible thing to do often times was the rarest to find these days. As such his offer made her smile. She almost forgot what it was like, to be interacted with as a human she was rather than a piece of meat to be gawked at.

"Um... Ares?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for the kind offer. Join us for the food you helped preparing?"

"I... don't—"

"Ah, have you eaten?"

"No," he admitted. "Could not."

She could have sworn he uttered the last one in a disbelief whisper. "Something happened? The climate? Bug bites? Training?" she giggled, returning the very lines he used to her.

"Something else," he responded. She wondered if Ares was even aware of how sad his tone was, but to think it was the ever-guarded Ares, she sensed something did happen.

"Is that... oh, right—" she reflexively brought her palm over her mouth. "W-was it my friends then? They are really nice people, so don't be angry at them! It's just they like to joke with me like that. I didn't mean to diss you either, on the contrary, I think you are kind! Wait, you heard us, didn't you?!"

"Some particular end of it," he responded. There was a tad twinkle in his eyes as he said that, though.

"Which part?! Which part, by gods I will slice your throat open if you don't tell me—"

"I indeed cannot tell you if you maim my throat," he chuckled a bit, but his expression returned somber.

Silence loomed over them and Lene could not stand it anymore. She slowly slid to sit closer to him as the fire burned brilliantly before them. The coals made clacking sounds as she watched over the grilled meat. "Ares, are you... alright?"

"... Don't come closer," he quickly backed away, surprising her. He never turned her away before this, and his rejection worried her more than it hurt her. She wanted to ask more, but Ares retreated like a wounded lion; he  _cowered_ before the fire, drawing his cape tighter as if wanting to protect himself from an invisible opponent. He hung his head down, his body limping like he just endured an exhausting load. Lene caught a sight of _something_  peeking out from the end of his cravat as the breeze slowly swayed it back and forth. With a tightened cape and withdrawing position, Ares appeared like a sick child and somehow it disturbed her more than anything else. What actually happened to Ares? What if he was sick? What if  _she_ did something without knowing?

"Ares, that one just now..." she reached out, accidentally touched the inner part of his cape's collar.  _Something wet-ish? What is—_ she brought her hand closer to the fire, and...

"I said don't—"

"Blood?!" 

Wet, wet liquid staining her entire palm in ugly crimson color, noting that the blood was probably hours-old... the blood of a  _former_ living being. Curious, she tried to turn his body to face her, ushering his shoulders so he would change his sitting position right away... and stared in shock. Ares was  _covered_  in blood. The front part of his shirt was a canvas of various shades of red, mostly decaying, ugly crimson like the one staining her hands, with some other were drying.

"Yes, it is," he smiled sadly. Very, very sadly as if he felt burdened with a pile of guilt because she saw it. "Forgive me," he muttered as he helped her sit again. "Forgive me."

Lene steadied her breathing. His apology sounded as if they were coming from the other side of the world, as if those were  _not_ actually addressed to her. "You are not... alright," she whispered.

"Probably not," his tone was low and husky as if he was about to cry. "That was reflexively foolish of me, and as for the other..." he hung his head out of shame. "I did not want you to see that. I truly wished you did not, yet at the same time I did not want you to worry about me."

"And the other one?"

He glanced at her, feeling defeated yet safeat the same time. The way she asked that. She knew something was up. To think she still asked after seeing how wrecked he was, perhaps a thousand of gratitude would not be enough... "It was just a child, Lene," he whispered as his shoulders limped. "That was not a job. That was murder. I killed a child whose weapon was a toy horse. It was not even a weapon, Lene—it was that—a toy. People talked about missing and murdered children. And they—well, I should not even think, should I?"

"But your group did not—... right?"

"We did not. Disgruntled masses seemed to begrudge the Lopts," he affirmed. "And they wanted an answer from one we just happened to be tasked escorting. To Bramsel's."

"They should not... unload at you then."

"What is the difference?" he mumbled in pain. "And I ended up killing a child. Goaded by the others, yes. But I should have known better. My father would... hang himself in shame if he saw me."

Silence again... until she decided on breaking it. And gods know where she summoned the courage for it, for she caressed him from behind, locking his head in her embrace, as if calming a disturbed child. A lonely, lonely child whose entire life was filled with sorrow and survival stories... "Let's just take this off." Ares made no sound, so she eagerly unbuttoned his cape, feeling relieved because only the small part of its inside that was stained with blood. His shirt was a different matter, though. She anxiously waited for his reaction, and at this point she would fight for his resolve to keep on living, although at the same time she wondered if she should say anything to lift up his spirits. But she never wielded a sword, and never killed anyone. No matter what she said, she felt her words would not come through a person who had lived all those experiences, and Ares certainly was not a newbie who needed her advice about a sword.

"Take this off," between delirium or not, Ares eventually spoke.

"Are you... sure?"

"I don't care. I don't want to see this shirt again," Ares felt so little, so little as if he had just been transported back to the little Ares under the safe high walls of Nordion's royal castle who refused a package sent from Agustria. One of the occasions where Chagall would send gifts for Eldigan, as a token of appreciation for Eldigan's servitude and his battle-hardened cross knights—as well as a reminder of where the crown actually was, despite their housing of the demon sword. There was a fine child shirt addressed for Master Ares of Nordion, as the card said, and it was exquisitely woven with the finest silk bolt and gold threads. The day Ares found out an Agustrian kid dug for a mold-covered bread in the trashcan, however, he buried the shirt under a pile of other rarely-worns in his closet.

"Alright then. Can I? I mean..."

"Do whatever you want to that cursed shirt," he replied dismissively.

She flung it into the fire. "Now you will not see it again. Never," she whispered as fire slowly eating the shirt, thread by thread. Lene took a deep breath. She stole a glance at Ares, who dismissively curled before the fire as if the warmth would ease his misery. She gently yanked his cravat until it fell into the ground, making the view of a battle-hardened body of the notorious Black Knight clearer. But at this point the Black Knight was no different than a scaredy cat...  _He is beautiful to the bones,_ her friend had said... and gods, that actually was  _true._  Those golden locks draping on a pair of strong, yielding shoulders. A weird birth mark on his upper left arm, the wide chest, the toned abs, rather lean but powerful arms—

"You are so kind, Ares."

He lifted his head and his voice broke as he responded. "You must be joking."

"I am not and because you are."

 _Soft, sincere voice. Was it sincerity—or pity—or... fear?_  "Curse me. Just curse me. You know I will not hate you for hating me—" he quickly stopped, feeling like he had confessed something which was previously locked safe underneath a box of emotional sensory which existence he previously doubted. "—I mean you know you can always be honest with me. Always."

"I have."

"... But how?" he whispered again. "... And why?"

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "Maybe because you helped me lighting the bonfire despite being a huge of emotional catastrophe and still offered to escort us back home safely. Maybe because you did not hesitate teaching me sword moves even though I heard you never took a pupil—"

"I never meant to monetize my swordsmanship to anyone—" he stopped as her face lightened and eventually broke into soft, soft chuckles. "Hey—"

"See," she smiled, and somehow part of his sorrow was gone. As if he was... absolved somehow. "—and maybe because you never complained when I dragged you to train with me. Or for some accidental chit-chats as we bumped into each other again and again, for offering to carry my things although I dragged you and your laundry just so you could have tea with me, for never—"  _–forced yourself on anyone—_

"That is... kind?"

"Yeah? Some other guys would just..." she stopped before giving further clue about how special he was.

"They are morons," he reflexively cut in.

"Oh they are," she concurred, relieved to see him beginning to be at ease. "Maybe because you still maintained your heart despite what  _they_ demanded of you, and with it, your humanity?"

"... You really are fearless, Lene," he muttered, but with a faint smile hidden under.

"I don't know about that, Ares, to think that I nearly fainted at the sight of... your bloody shirt," she sighed. "You probably think I am not as awesome as you would prior—well, suppose you did."

"Nonsense. Feeling nauseous because of  _that_ is not a sign of cowardice. It's called... being human," his last words were trailed like some of the blood patches left on his bare chest. "I kept telling myself I would be a different kind of a sellsword albeit being in the same group and doing the same job as everyone else. I guess beggars cannot choose."

"You are already different," she mumbled. "You always give a chance for those who are unwilling to fight to flee. You do not engage the unarmed, and definitely do not... damage goods mindlessly—"

"Why would one do that if the fight could end better?"

"... Because they are morons?" she copied his tone, and his mouth twitched a bit. "I can't say much, Ares, but thank you for being here, for being there for us. Thank you for taking care of me. And thank you for being you when doing it too! Ah, damn, bad speech, huh? You used to say I reminded you like a clown."

"I did?"

"Your eyes said it all!"

"Well, you have said much now."

"Is that a diss—wait—oh my God?!"

"It is not and—Lene, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because you actually smiled and chuckled!"

"... I did?"

"Yes, yes, you did!" she reflexively flung herself over him, grasping those fine shoulders reflexively for... a bear hug. "And let this cursed shirt burn too. May there will never be a wretched encounter like what you just had today. For the better tomorrow! For the new Ares!! Hey, eat the barbecue, sunshine head, otherwise it will get cold! Boy, the Queen Bee was right. You are handsome to the bones, especially when smiling and looking so tender like this, without those scary murderous gazes and curt replies."

"... Is that so?"

"I mean your typical Ares day with the sharp gazes and constipated expression are cool too, but—h-huh—wait. Did I say that? Did I—"

"And is that what you are actually thinking as well?"

"No? Why would I?" her hands were on her hips as her tone ascended.

"Very well then," still chuckling and smiling he took the cape she unbuttoned and casually draped it over his body. "My utmost gratitude for today, Miss."

"Lalala, didn't hear anything, didn't hear anything—"

"I will be off now if you say so, but I am probably going to patrol around in the next an hour or so. If the kind ladies still need an escort, hire me. You already prepaid it with the food," he nodded again.

"Lalala, lalala..." Lene hummed, trying hard to ignore Ares as he prepared to leave by pretending to test on her dance moves.

"Then good night," he nodded again.

"Finally! Byeee, Ares. Oh well, he would have been gone by now. You see, Ares, you should learn to not do your Ares tone like that when expressing a concern about something. Or when paying attention to anything. Or when conveying your gratitude or whatever. Anything, really. Because what if someone  _died_ because of it? I mean—" she stopped waving back and forth, turned around, and—

"You mean like this?" he dropped his voice into low, low husky tone, a silky tender one while bowing his head to match her height as she stared in pure shock. His victorious smirk quickly turned into another series of soft chuckles as his acquaintance dancer brought her hands to cover her beet-red face, as if calming her that no, he was not about to feast on her defeat...  _yet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wanted to hint that a) the Loptyrian Cult is starting to emerge again; and b) the possibility of the Empire starting to conduct child hunt. The game did not give us much insight about Ares besides his background story, but based on how gentle he was and his capability to get mushy with Lene (as displayed on how he easily conceded and then apologized in Chapter VII), I thought of writing a broken Ares besides the letter incident with Nanna in Chapter VIII. It's nice to contrast the Ares people have come to believe vs the actual Ares that is actually vulnerable and lonely.
> 
> Anyway, this was hard to write because of (many) obvious reasons. And apologies for the unusual length!


	8. Soft

They called him the Black Knight.

What she heard from them, he was the personification of strength and power. As if the two could be told apart the moment he wielded the blade, though—they would add so themselves. Some people who sought for his service commented about it too; how ferocious and unhesitant the moment he unsheathed the so-called demon sword. Pale Rider was not an exaggerate term when he left with seven dead brigand bodies one stormy night after disgruntled villagers scraped their coins since they had enough. The villagers had been complaining about robbery for some time, and resistance caused a farm to burn and a family murdered. When an elder started looking for a sellsword, everyone at the bar whispered to him about Javarro, the mercenary chief known to be honest with the client as long as you paid forward. But a known name meant extra penny, and the impoverished village barely collected enough to pay for just three mercenaries at maximum instead of a squad. Javarro, however, sent one at the price of three after laughing when the elder said there would be about seven of them. And this person was the Black Knight.

Clean cuts, death by single unwasted blow, all of them—tavern-goers whispered. And they would be either silent or welcoming him merrily the moment the feared Black Knight walked in. Some people begrudged mercenaries for serving a master called money. To some others, they were a ray of hope when authorities were out of question. With the last one at least that forest-hidden village would be safe, and so would the travel passage. So they dragged the Black Knight to the table and paid for his drink. People stared in awe again after he emptied five shots in no time and still left with a steady stance.

... They called him the Black Knight...

Heavy rainfall came down when eager travelers were about to return to Darna. Some built a tent near the Yied oasis, some preferred docking at some outside inn because nobody wanted to be near a Loptyrian temple. Some caught the sight of a mustang galloping like racing the Devil, with its rider neatly covered in cape as he carried a sling bag across his shoulders. Warm food-hunters and their comfort soup caught the sight of a descending equestrian who merely wiped his face with a towel before knocking on a manor's front door and dropping the bag he carried. "The tiara you ordered," he spoke briefly, got his cash, and left. Golden locks draped over a pair of strong shoulders, as unyielding as his blade stance as his neck straightened a bit to down a glass of warm mulled wine. And in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

They did call him the Black Knight.

Some ordinary folks might catch his quiet presence strolling the market a couple of times every week. He was not particularly chatty, and his visitations usually ended with a bag of food provisions or medicine which he would easily carry over the same unyielding shoulders they were used to see. When a curious butcher joked that it was as if he was buying supplies for an entire army, he simply responded with an affirmative. When a fish peddler braved herself to ask if he kept losing bets since it had become a routine, he simply answered because he could. Neither answer contained a boast about his physical prowess itself, but he then made it clear that he was never fond of gambling. 

She, however, caught him carrying a large sack of wheat and dropped it quietly at an orphanage.

They called him the Black Knight...

They quickly moved sides when he came into the bar, emptying the table he used to frequent. Nobody remembered who dubbed the spot as Throne of the Black Knight, but it had become a general consensus for the bar-goers to leave the spot untouched. He did not seem to care otherwise, though. One night cold sweats dropped because an unaware traveler sat at the Throne, and everyone waited with gripping anxiety as they caught him swaying closer. One person started goading the traveler to quickly conclude his drinking as he approached them, and the poor traveler had no idea why the peaceful individualistic nuance suddenly escalated.

She, however, just muttered a simple, "Ares, the table is occupied. You are late."

Silence ensued. How daring was this feeble dancer! Yet the man whom they addressed as the Black Knight stood for a while before retreating to the counter, claiming a vacant seat and made his order. 

She caught his simple "Oh."

One well-meaning drinker advised her to take a detour and went out from the back door as to save herself from the Black Knight's wrath. When she said the Black Knight was not even angry, the drinker called her delusional because the Black Knight never spared a soul. "What do you think his 'oh' meant?"

"... That he accepted and he lingered to check if he could still find a vacant seat?" she answered simply. The drinker called her naïve because she ought to not know how  _terrifying_ this Black Knight was.

She said she knew, and sincerely thanked the other person for caring. From the corner of her eyes she saw Ares the Black Knight quickly ordered a glass of milk for a toddler after accidentally knocking it down—all in haste, away from the knowing eyes of the toddler's parents. She was about to reiterate to the drinker that because he was just Ares to her, and this Ares did not kill for pleasure.

* * *

 

They called him the Black Knight.

She called him Ares.

 

"More," his voice was as calm as the tranquil silvery river flowing before them. She nodded, fixing her sword grip before launching another strike, which he parried at ease as if the strike was merely a tease. She had caught him being by the river in that sunny day to train, and curiosity got the best of her to peek. After all, this was the Black Knight everyone feared. Ferocious Black Knight with a de jure permanently reserved table at a local bar, the man who wow'd market-goers with large purchases he carried alone. The lion cub who knew no fatigue, Death personified armed with a demon sword. Being the Black Knight apparently meant he was skilled enough to sense being watched. As breaths stopped just like the other day when she informed him of the taken spot, everyone braced themselves when the Black Knight approached her. Mystletainn was still in his hand, which was bandaged for fight-training and preventing slipping. Picnic-goers turned their heads; some did not dare to look since they were aware that  _he_ was aware of being gawked at, apparently—while some would rather pretend to not see anything in case something horrible happened. Some others decided it was the perfect time to move spot, however.

 _The audacity,_  some men, again was horrified when her cheerful voice proposed a joint training. How dare this dancer! And probably a fake offer too because, according to them, that was not the way to win a man's favor—other ladies would have done that differently, they scowled.

What they did not hear, however, was the first thing their fearsome Black Knight uttered when seeing her—her name.  _Lene._  A "Why not? Rather than wasting time rocking back and forth like that," followed shortly after.

She tailed behind him as he moved forward to get the best spot for both of them. He turned around, asking why she followed him like a loyal canine company when she could walk  _beside_ him instead of behaving like a squire to a decorated knight. "I want to observe you!" was the official answer she gave him. It was not a lie when she said she wondered what made him so strong—could it be the way he walked? Did he preserve energy in any of his movement, or was it just because he was blessed with natural martial prowess or that carrying a sword like Mystletainn made him used to greater weight?

 _Training,_  he informed her, "Because nothing I have came as freebies." She caught the sad, sad undertone drowned beneath that sorrowful gaze and soft husky reply. And that would be what others could never understand—all these things made him simply Ares to her.

"So, what did you learn from this Black Knight observation?" as always, he would return to normal, as if he tried to make both of them forgetting the emerged emotional splashes.

 _One of them would be that you have a nice... errr—_ she quickly moved her gaze from his bottom. Sudden shyness engulfed her, yet she wondered if other people—... women, actually thought the same thing and quickly felt the same thing after doing the same thing. She was about to give a holier answer when his words came through.

"... And for steering me away from the crowd?"

 _They called him the Black Knight,_  her mind barged in.

"Lene?"

_They called her the Dancer._

"Would be nice to be able to just train and let loose without people assigning things on you, right?" she caved in. "And I want to be able to rehearse without being subjected to unsavory stares." Some time ago, she did mention about her small pragmatic living compartments, which would be too crowded and narrow to function as a practice ground. He did not say anything but making an understanding gesture because apparently he too only used his lodge to sleep.

"Do you have your sword with you?" he asked.

"Always. Your advice!" she replied firmly, and her eyes slowly ignited when she thought of seeing the same sparkles in his eyes. She never thought that he would be  _delighted_ just because of that.

"Okay. Assume a readying stance," he unsheathed his sword. She noted that there was no single sound besides a soft, soft clinking soundthe moment Mystletainn was fully drawn. No wonder his swordsmanship was on a different level, she thought again, untying the knots that held the cloth serving as her sword's cover. He paid attention to her every move, and much to her surprise, commenting about how graceful that was because it indicated a wary and alert person. 

"Wow, Ares. You are the first person to ever say that. Means a lot, you know?"

"So how many times you've ever been in fight or flight situation?"

She stopped. "What... do you mean?"

"I will reiterate." She noted there was a change in his tone—subtle, yet remarkably gentler if not careful. "Have you drawn this blade for defending yourself? Entertainers usually have everything set the moment they walked on stage. You will not get this out of the cover on stage, am I right?"

"Um, actually..." she tried to dismiss it with laughter, but those moments—those moments did make her shudder in fear. The fear she tried hard to suppress, fear she did not show and kept down with biting words and angry outbursts. The same look other girls gave to each other when they accidentally met each other's gaze when doing business at night, the look she encountered a couple of times from female bar-workers. All the subtle gestures—the slow retreats, the hasty handshakes, the introduction session female performing artists had with each other just so they knew each other and kept account if something—something happened to any of them. The look from women in the alleys when they heard old men roaring an invitation for a drink. And the very same suave, deflecting laughter she had come to learn as well—

"Then we will work on something for that."

"... Oh," Lene nearly tumbled on the knots when Ares concluded his sentence. The Black Knight did not press her to tell more, and accepted her halted words just like that. Simple, simple softness from an unlikely fellow which nearly drove her being overwhelmed with emotion, something she thought she had no longer known.  _He asked,_ she thought again.  _... And not when he got his answers. So—_

"I'd like to see your rehearsal," he commented. "I think the basis of either swordplay or routine professional dancing like you is not actually different. The training regime and required technique, yes. But the aimed objective should be similar."

"Do you think so?" her eyes lighted up. "That... makes sense actually."

"Why are you so surprised?" he quirked an eyebrow. "I have seen you a couple of times on stage. Durability, flexibility, stamina. You train to improve those aspects, am I right?"

She shook her head in awe. Ares at his usual self was blunt and steadfast, and she had grown used to his blunt questions and statements. He would not shy away to convey what he wanted to know, but their interactions proved that he did have some reservations when it came to important matters concerning her person, which made him— _soft,_  she mumbled what she could not finish earlier, somehow feeling a bit weird after concluding her thoughts. Unusual, yes. But not the kind of uneasiness which made her feeling so odd about herself to the point of wanting to question her own sanity. "It's just that..."

"Yes?"

 _He waited again,_ she noted... again. "Many people think these two are different matters. I mean—supposedly, swordplay is about strength, and yet..."

"No, Lene," his tone was tender, yet he firmly shook his head. "And I can confidently tell you that is not actually the case. Do you want to know where those people are right now?"

"I don't know. Old? Or... ah, don't tell me. Gatekeepers of old, classical arts of swordsmanship?"

"No. They are dead."

"D... dead?" she looked him in the eyes, yet he was unwavering.

"Make a stance. Fortify yourself so I can't knock you down," he commanded, with his usual Black Knight-Ares-tone—matter-of-factly and to the point, curt—as some would say.

"Impossible. You  _can_ subdue me!" her eyes widened.

"I cannot," she wondered if it was the heat or she was just  _that_ bedazzled because Ares' voice was firm, albeit... tenderly resolved. "And I will not. Ever—well, just try it. Get on  _en garde_ position, imagine an assailant—" he quickly took the words back, "... no. Let me try this again. Imagine some jealous asswipe wants to take this sword, and you are holding on to it as if it is precious to you."

"Well, not very far from truth. I've been told that this sword is actually pretty good, but selling it will be the last thing to ever cross my mind because it's a memento from my mother," her eyes were there, yet her mind float somewhere. "Took it to a blacksmith one time to have it appraised. They told me it's called the Safeguard. This may sound odd but perhaps that is why it's been keeping me safe all my life, you know? My mother probably put all her prayers and efforts here to keep me safe."

"... It does not sound weird to me," he responded slowly. "And for what it's worth, 'Safeguard' sounds much better than a demon sword that thirsts for blood."

"Mystletainn," she replied in a tender manner although her tone was cheerful. "You said the name was Mystletainn, and it was a regalia of your late father."

"Yes," his voice followed her tone that it almost came out as a whisper. "It is."

"And you told me your father was an honorable knight to the very end."

"... Yes, he definitely was an embodiment of an ideal knighthood..."

"Then I'm sure you too, are... and I mean, this sword is..." she sensed his changing demeanor and quickly divert the conversation. "I'm sorry, Ares, I didn't mean to make you feel sad or sentimental!"

"No, it's alright," he responded. "See, I was right when I said I could not subdue you."

"Could not?" her eyebrows twitched. "But—"

"Cannot," he corrected. "Alright, let me see the  _en garde._ Pay no mind to it _._ "

She inhaled deeply, and he backed away to give her more room so she could execute the needed stance. "Um..."

"What's the matter?"

"Because I am not... good?" she replied, suddenly feeling so small and weak before him. He was a warrior with actual kill counts tailing his footprints. Rather than a meek impression she actually wanted to come out pretty good before a seasoned swordsman like the Black Knight. Where did this anxiety come from again? She was fiery and always sure of herself. But out of a sudden, when faced with the Black Knight to talk about  _swords,_ suddenly that confidence flew out of the window.  _Is this what his opponents felt too before clashing blades with him?_ She thought again, watching his reaction.

Ares took the Mystletainn he did not draw. "Strike me."

"But."

"Strike me."

"O... okay, here gooooes!" she shouted to collect all the courage she was going to need and lunged. "A-ah—did I—make it?"

"Yes," Ares responded with his trademark blunt tone again as she stopped to watch how her blade landed on his blade's sheath. "You can do it. Now I want you to keep that position."

"Like... this?"

"Yes, precisely."

She followed his movement and nearly gasped when he merely put down Mystletainn. "Did you do that so I assume initial position?"

"Yes?" he gave another simple reply.

"And you—you did not even—draw your sword?"

"Yes? Why would I?"

"Nothing!"  _... They called him the Black Knight. But his name is Ares, and he is—soft._

"I don't know the reason behind that sudden cheerfulness but... alright," Ares pondered, looking even more dazed as her smile grew wider and... sweeter. "Now this is what I meant. Lene, I am going to unseat your center of gravity."

"Unseat my—what?"

"Where you put your power—" she could have sworn his face suddenly turned red as he awkwardly added, "I didn't mean it in that manner—I have my honor too, you know—well—" he cleared his throat, pointing at her legs with the sheath. "This position concentrates your weight on your legs, right? If I  _unbalance_ you, you will lose the power to hold on to this position because the point where it is generated from is disturbed." She stared, watching him pushing his right leg into the area between her two legs stood. Ares twisted his calf a bit into the inner standing area, hooking a side near her dominant leg's ankle and gave a slight diagonal push, prompting her to gasp and tumble. He quickly caught her and helped her back to the standing position. "Did that hurt?"

"A bit," she admitted. His eyes turned ashy, and she quickly consoled him. "It's just because I'm not used to it! Go on, go on! Let's continue! But just how much power did you put there, Ares?"

"Actually, none."

"None?!" she almost yelped. "... just how strong are you, actually?"

"I feel guilty if I accepted the praise. Nothing to be proud of to be a monster even if it's for survival," he chuckled. "And in all honesty, none. It was simply unbalancing your stance. These two here work together, sharing an equal burden to maintain your stability—" he did the initial attacking stance himself, "and a mere disturbance disrupted the harmony. That's what masters meant when they taught you to catch your opponent off guard."

"So now you are the master."

"I am a mercenary," he corrected. She did not expect him to appear embarrassed, yet there he was, averting his eyes, displaying a gesture of humility and speaking softly to her. "I will do it again. This time imagine you are evading someone else's steps so that he won't trip you. You CAN evade it."

"Alright," she braced herself, and he smiled faintly again. She assumed the initial attack-ready position, and he moved similarly to prior. Her dance training instantly kicked in as she made a subtle leap when his leg pressed in. She reflexively made a twirl, backtracking around his body before turning to be face-to-face with him again.

"Great!" he complimented.

"Was it... you mean... oh gosh, was it?" she beamed with pride now.

"Yes. Lene, you  _have_  what I do not. Your flexibility as a dancer is an asset and that was a great move to escape an invasion of personal space. That way you got the upperhand because the opponent will only catch a wind. That will buy you time to escape, or, if we do it my way—"

"Castrate him?"

"Well, as a fellow man I'd say it depends on the crime, but as a man as well, yes." His mouth twitched, forming a pleasant crescent shape of a sincere smile. "Incapacitate his sword. I will show you."

"Sir!" she made a saluting gesture and cheerfully went on, "Don't worry Ares, I will not castrate you."

"My humble gratitude for the utmost mercy," he returned the playful banter,  _truly_ smiling this time. "Now, swing the sword.  _At_ me."

"Are you... sure? I don't want to hurt you as well, you know..."

"Oh you will not," he purposefully invoked the confident tone to ease off her doubts, silently glad it worked because she did appear to be more at ease while readying for another strike. He wondered if there was even ever a limit of how far he would be willing to go to make her comfortable like this—one thing he was pleasantly surprised was, he did not mind.

Lene readied her sword. Well, sure that she knew she would not dent his defense, alright—this was the Black Knight they talked about— _no, it's Ares!_ her inner voice spoke again. The same shyness came to her again, and she wondered why that was. The Black Knight was powerful, that was true. That she could not win against him if he got serious—well, an axiom, perhaps, even if she would say so herself. But  _Ares_ —Ares, not the Black Knight—Ares would not even dream of hurting her no matter what, and all the segments they were having made it clear that there was some kind of comfort with Ares, the kind of comfort and  _trust_  to give her a room to try. Black Knight would overpower her, but  _Ares_ would not even think of it. And somehow, even though she treated this training with seriousness—regardless of her teasing him—only then she was aware that Ares was actually teaching her to win against  _men_. Unsavory lewd men who meant harm. It was as if he was telling her to gain leverage against  _himself_  although he did not belong in the category. 

Well, she  _saw_ his reddening face due to that innuendo slips! And although self-defense training would still be harsh no matter what, in Ares she found everything to be...  _soft._ And she was nearly so overwhelmed that had he asked her for a favor in return, she probably would just say yes at an instant. "Here I go."

"In actual situation, just make your move. Do not announce your intent."

"Alright," she braced herself as much as she carved the lessons to her heart. "Yaaah—!"

"Like this!" his voice tore the sky as he caught both of her wrists with his arms crossed forward _._

"Ah—"

"Seize them, lock them—" he twisted his own wrists, showing how hers were now locked in his grip as his arms returned to straight position, not crossed as prior. That move also locked the sword arm because he pushed the bone under the thumb, incapacitating her movement as the sword was rendered useless for being secured in a dead end-like position. "And throw. Same leg move like before!" He did just that, causing her to yelp out of reflex. Her body tumbled forward as her sword helplessly fell to the ground, and he quickly grabbed her shoulders before her face kissed the soil.

"I... I see," she gasped.

"You do not need a lot of strength when you catch the opponent off guard," he picked up the sword, returning it to her. "You are a dancer. And I say this seriously—that is not a small deal. You know how to train muscle memory, similar to self defense. Others usually think as long as you are strong, you'll win."

"And they are... dead?"

"Well, I put one in crutches last night," he replied diplomatically.

"So you too, are not... undefeatable."

"Precisely. And that is exactly what I want you to remember. No matter who that is, does not mean you have no chance at all just because the opponent is tall or big. One thing to stabilize yourself—swing your sword with your shoulders instead of your arms. You won't be easily disarmed. I will show you."

... She noticed he forwent the word  _assailant_ ever since the first slip. "... But Ares... that..."

"Hurt too?" there was unmasked worry all over his face as he took her wrists again to examine it.

"N-no, it's fine."

"Lene."

"It's not—"

"Lene, look at me."

 _Soft, soft touches and voices—_ and she was near her breaking point. "Ares, you did not—hurt me," she held on to the overwhelming emotions before one tenderness from him destroyed the dam. "I meant that... applies to you too. That you are not undefeatable or made out of steel."

"I... see," he whispered.

"Gosh, now you spoke so softly as well," she quickly retorted to her usual cheerful tone.

"I can't just ignore your concern," came his another soft, soft reply. "And this is what I meant earlier." As if knowing she did not want to delve in the sudden sentimental vibe, he got up, which she followed eagerly. "Swing it."

She did obediently, and he gave a gentle pat on her triceps.

"You are still using your arms. These parts contracted. Swing again," and she collected her resolve as he went to get Mystletainn. Another swing. He parried, and pushed her backwards. "If you put your strength there, the opponent could easily unbalance you. What I meant is—" he made a move, "pay attention to my shoulder blades and hips. The classical way of generating strength is from the abdomen, which explains why heyday knights emphasized on strength-training this area. The expected result would be for the swordsman to develop strong, sturdy stomach muscles."

"Javarro taught you?"

"No," he responded with a certain tender sadness. "My father did."

"Oh..."

"Well, just check my shoulder blades," he dissuaded the melancholia before it got the best of him.

She trailed his shoulder blades as asked, feeling contractions around. Cheekily, as her hands became a bit greedy through the fingers she danced around his sturdy back. "Um—"

"Hey, you are spacing out."

"Ah, yes—yes, there!"

"You can do this later by yourself," he concluded.

"You are not going to check on my shoulder blades?"

"No. I'm not touching you," he replied firmly. "And this is how I'm going to check my squire. Swing again."

She did, and he caught her wrists again. "I... I can hold it this time. Throw me down, Ares!"

"Lene—"

"Why are you hesitating? Come on—"

"Well," he cleared his throat, "you are too loud."

"Oh. ... Oh? Oh!!" she brought her hands to her face as her sword helplessly met the soil... again. As she felt like drowning herself to death right there because he merely picked it up without saying anything, she thought she heard a sound—

_Chuckles._

Faint ones slowly changed into clearer  _laughter_  as the volume increased. Ares. And now he did not chuckle—he was laughing. At her awkwardness? Couldn't be if his voice was  _that_ tender. Right? ... Right...

"... What am I going to do with you," as if talking to himself, he managed to muster a comment after the laughter serenade died down. "You are so soft so I was thinking of delivering these lessons and tips in another way. That was what I thought last night. Yet, seeing how resolved you are changed it all. So eager like this, and it would only be disrespectfulif I did not respond in a similar manner."

"I am... soft—?" she blinked. And felt a bit sad.  _Does Ares think of me the way other men perceived me?_  Those polite smiles they took as submission. The witty lines and mild flattery they took as invitation, that her person—her body, too—was as open for purchase like her dance tickets.

"Yes," he responded. Another unwavering reply.

"You must be joking, Ares. I have a sharp tongue and you witnessed it."

"Do I look like you?"

"What? How dare you, I'm not a clown—aaah, Ares!" she threw a leaf at him, and he chuckled. Begrudgingly  _shy_  she pressed on, "or do you mean I am soft just because I'm a woman?"

"I'm not talking about women the way people talk about their blankets."

"Then I don't... understand. Gosh, Ares, sometimes you are confusing exactly when you appear sweet. The sad irony! People with angelic hair should not be so cheeky."

"And what did you just call me again?"

 _A faint tender smile... or is it?_  "... Ares?" she repeated, dumbfounded.

"Exactly that."

_... Ah..._

"Well, not bad, squire. Keep up that spirit but improve your swings. I have to get ready for today's mission—I will be careful," he added, catching her expression. "That said, there will still be enough cooling time for us. You see, Lene, I'd like to know how you train for flexibility if it's possible next time. I probably will not be able to keep up with you though, considering you are a professional dancer. I can only imagine lagging behind."

 _Soft, soft humility, soft, soft Ares_ —"Alright," she gave an answer. "Hey, I have an idea. You must be tired, right? Why don't you rest here while I fetch you something fresh, Ares? See, the tree here is big enough to shadow us. And being near the river will cool the air down a bit."

"You don't have to—"

"What did you call me just now?"

"Huh? Squire? Ah, sorry. I was joking—"

"Exactly that," she copied his tone again while her index finger reigned on his lips. "So I'm going to fetch my sir knight some refreshments. And I told you, I—"

"—know all the best snacks in town, yes. Go forth, squire."

"Roger that!" she laughed, and was even more delighted to see his demeanor loosened up. She left, but caught him smoothed the grass where they sat. He parted the grass, flattened them... "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Well," tenderness subsided, matter-of-fact manner returned—"that would make a better sitting ground for us, no? And this way we can check if we accidentally step on an ant or something."

_Soft, soft Black Knight—Ares—_

"Ares, you are so soft."

"This demon sword would like to disagree, Miss."

"Soft," and just like that she lunged her covered sword at him.

"Yes, keep the speed and pace like that," his trained muscle memory quickly caught up as he seized her wrists with the same moves he demonstrated earlier. "And now—"

"Not over yet."

"Oh?" he smelled challenge, instantly noting to himself to tone down those battle-hardened reflexes as he anticipated her to struggle against him.

Lene gave the biggest grin he ever witnessed. She raised a finger, and he wondered what on lovely earth kind of move was that—or about to be—before she swiftly wiggled him right on the nose. "Gotcha."

He paused with a bewildered expression on his face.

She paused, waiting in anticipation and a tad of anxiety at the same time.

But before long their soft chuckles went out together, serenading each other like a double dance score. "You too," he commented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FE 4 and 5 is / are dark and so is the Nordion family saga so I thought of doing something a bit different this time. I hope this is not out of character (especially for Ares), but in my defense he is indeed very soft to her, so may fandom god absolve me ;P


	9. Cold

"Do you eat vegetables, if at all?"

Her blunt question took him by surprise as he watched her loading various kind of plants into a simple wooden shopping basket. He discovered that they had similar morning routine, with him shopping the needed provisions for his group and her checking out various things at the market. The marketplace was the kind of all-to-go market where everyone in Darna eagerly visited to get their goods, and their morning routine made bumping into each other came off convenient. Javarro would just hand him the sack as usual because he was the earliest bird to rise in their group, and with monotonous shopping habit which he had learnt through time, it was not hard to guess what everyone wanted.

Cold, cold air usually greeted him when he rose up, a typical phenomenon of a desert town where the days could be scorching while the nights freezing. In between, he secretly valued his solitaire because that way he would be left alone without others pestering him, and although he did not really care if his bluntness ruffled another mercenary's feathers, he was not so kind as to give himself a free chance to engage in nonsense.

That was months ago, though. He had no idea that blending in the crowd could set a rather noteworthy kind of ambiance, contrary to the indifference he was used to. Never would he dream that a simple acquaintance with another person... the  _right_ person, that was, could make a huge difference in a really subtle manner. Hence, he started noticing what he could not care less prior. How the weather slowly warmed, for example, or the golden horizon which emerged like... what was it as the odd bard Darnaians saw more frequently lately called? Ah, yes,  _hope._ Impressionist painting, the odd bard would add, weak, shy golden sun peeking in the middle of snowing. A gem of nobility among ambitious greed, and it would strike the perfect tune for a canto about a devoted lord with a long-lost realm.

And with it, he noticed something constant, and somehow it was relieving to him: her smile. 

Lene would wave her arms at him each time they bumped into each other in the morning, greeting him with her trademark way of shouting "good morning!" to him. At first he seriously considered if he was being stalked. The next time he knew, he realized even if it was true, he did not particularly mind about it. Oddly, though, when he figured she did not actually stalk him, he was a bit disappointed _._  However the unchanging smiles and cheerful greetings became his refuge as he tried processing all the feelings he started noticing, in which many were among the things he never thought he had... or could have. The sudden change interrupted the stable routine he basked in, and her unfazed approaches were the anchor he held on to before the change overwhelmed him.

And then he realized he did not actually mind it that much.

He thought he tailed along because they were heading to the same aisles, though, as they both aimed to get their groceries before their respective morning practices. He had spent some occasions about that with her too, which he genuinely did not regret. There was a secret pride budding deep down inside of him to watch her practicing with the sword; of seeing how her stance improving, how her swings having more power in them. It was not much about his own prowess that helped her getting around with the sword, but the fact that his sword could help something to grow instead of ending it gave him a sensation he could not put into words.

Ares checked on the sack he carried as he loaded yet another batch of brisket into it. He gave her a head shake. "I'll just have what others have. Convenient that way." Somehow his mind flew back to his childhood. Many people were looking after him, supervising his nutrition intake to ensure his growth into a healthy and strong baby boy. His memory traveled past, reminiscing his mother trying to make him finish all his carrots and tomatoes.

"Do you like the vegetables?" she asked again as her fingers moved from one basket to another, one being full of potatoes while another of turnips.

Ares recalled cold moon-less nights of hunger and despair, or how the hostile cold street blocks felt under his little feet. Memories of digging through trash bins to find something to survive, of meat-less soups which looked like bowls of bland watery broth with little cuts of carrots, potatoes, or turnips his mother put on their table. Or how she would just drink the broth and leave the vegetable cuts for himself before hiding the coughs and masking her feverish, exhausted expression under the disguise of distaste. "No," came his monotone reply. Of course, only later he would learn that adulthood did not actually make you hate vegetables, because his little hungry stomach would rather take a decaying old one than nothing to eat at all. When he learned that he  _could_ actually survived carrots and tomatoes, he also learned that adulthood apparently meant training yourself to be a liar because his mother said everything she did just to make him eat.

... The thing was, she did not.

"Wouldn't it be boring to eat the same thing over and over again?" she, still blissfully unaware of his struggle with all the resurfacing coldness, peeked into his sack.

"If you pay no mind to what grazes your tongue, why would it be?" he shrugged, watching her pointing at various spice containers to ask them measured.

"You never... taste?" she paused mid-air, just at the right moment when the spice seller was about to hand her purchase.

Image of little Ares clutching the Mystletainn tightly danced in his head. 

 _Please, Mystletainn. My mother is sick. Forgive me, Mister Snake!!_ the small hands bestowed a powerful thrust downward, miserably ending the animal's life. The night was so cold and his mother had curled in a fetal position on the bed. He just changed her towel. He tried his best to ignore the cold sweats that dripped as he dipped the bloody sword into the river. And another, a companion for his churning stomach as he cleaned the snake meat to bring home. Her livening expression, his cold response of "the butcher was concerned of you, Mama, because you stopped shopping!" when she asked where he got it, his cold lie about it being beef instead of snake flesh, the cold gripping sadness when he could tell how delighted Grahnye was because it had been years since they could afford the luxury. His cold conveyed "I'm going to be a big man soon, so you don't have to worry about me," when Grahnye was gravely concerned since he had taken the Mystletainn out deliberately to play with it. 

Ares cleared his throat and finally gave her an answer. "I know it is food. Why does it matter?" suddenly he wanted to hug himself because the biting cold breeze passed through him like a blade.

"If you know it is food," she put a clear emphasis on the  _if_ part, before softly whispering,  _the way a human and a prey do not differ for your sword..._

"Of course I can tell," he responded defensively.

"If you can tell," again, she put a clear emphasis on the  _if_ part. 

He opened his mouth to reply, but strangely he did not find anything he thought he could say to dissuade this silly little debate. Well, these past months he figured that he got a slim chance to best her at the battle of wits anyway, although he was still looking for a sensible explanation why the world did not feel so dark and cold even though he had been defeated multiple times like this. 

She did not seem to notice his speechlessness, however, because she enthusiastically tugged on his cape when a sign caught her attention. "Look, Ares, big potato discount."

He listened to her mumbling her calculations. Of what she could bring home if she took the discount, if she got a certain kilogram of potatoes; how much all her intended purchases would be if combined with the spices she just got, and what food could be made for the day with those potatoes and what to do the next day so that this potato heaven could last for about three days, if she kept the potatoes well. Or what other offer followed the potatoes, because sure she could take advantage of it as well. Morning ray fell on them and the potatoes as she spoke, and he began to relax when the warmth of the sun started getting to him as well. 

"Are they that important?"

"The potatoes?"

 _The weather. The taste. The warmth. I don't know, everything you brought up to me. Feels so strange yet familiar at the same time._  "Yes."

"Why not? They make good carbo, taste well, kitchen-flexible, filling..." she hummed again before greeting the shopkeeper. "I'd like the discount potatoes, please!"

_Leftover soup. Blackening peels. Unfinished cuts. A bag of six for the two of us, four days. Cold broth. Cold pot. Cold room. Cold body. Cold feet. Cold shoulders. Biting hunger. Cold Mystletainn. Cold blood. Cold truths. Cold end. Cold twist._

_"Master Ares, young sir, please, eat your potatoes! Don't leave this out until the next day, Her Ladyship instructed me to remind you."_

_"... Ares, sure you can be a good boy and have another potato day tomorrow, right? Now let's set this aside for the next day."_

"Will that be all?" he checked on her basket.

"Yep," she replied, beaming with joy and victorious grin as she loaded a pile of potatoes into the basket. "Spoils of war."

Her prideful cheery tone brought him back to the senses he thought he had lost. "Well, I guess I better start training before it gets... too hot." They exited the aisle, side by side, lost in thoughts and whatnot as if trying to enjoy the early sunshine before heading toward their respective destination. He heard her humming again, her hands navigating through the depths of her basket, checking on layers of purchases.

"... Oh, no."

He cocked an eyebrow. She was usually precise and careful, something he started noticing to correspond to the way she danced. Every choreography was planned perfectly, and the number of audience would not make a difference in terms of performance quality she delivered to the beholders. "Did you forget anything?"

There was a sheepish smile on her face, and he wondered if today was going to be hotter than usual because  _radiance_ would be the only fitting word to describe what he just thought feeling. "No, actually, no. I just bought too many. Miscalculated."

"Ah," was his mere answer. He still tailed around, something he usually would do whenever he was with her until she was the first to bide him a goodbye.

"I know the solution!" her sudden announcement surprised him. Amazing how the bitter coldness easily returned when he did not hear her voice, he pondered, and wondered why that coldness felt lonelier than ever just because the charming dancer stopped talking.

"And that would be...?" there was an eager anticipation in his voice. Lene was unpredictable. He was more used to read the nature than her, although she surprised him in a delightful way each time he got to know her more. Each talking moment, everything...

"You, Ares!"

"Me?" he could not resist the stupid confused look as her finger playfully pointed at him.

"Mm-hmm!" she nodded, and her ponytail swayed around as she did so. "You hardly eat vegetables. I will make you some soup."

"... You... cooking for me?"

Her head bobbed enthusiastically as she replied in affirmative. "Yes! If you are done for the day, come to the bar at the usual hour. I am scheduled to perform tonight, but that will be all for today. It’s getting colder lately, don’t you think?” when he did not reply, she went on, “I can share some with the other dancers as well. We can have something to eat behind the stage, if the girls are unwilling to join the others at the regular table.”

Ares understood what it meant too well. Colder nights usually saw more boozes to drink, and with it, more drunkards to carry home by their caring friends, supposed they were not too drunk to do so themselves. And with it, more things to shout and more reasons for bars to be wilder than ever, at the expense of the barmaids and any other woman working night shifts. “I think that is wise,” he nodded in agreement.

“And I can borrow the cook’s stove to heat this up as we dance. That way, it will be served warm for you,” she went on. “Everyone deserves a nice hearty meal on a cold night, right?”

 _Everyone, she said,_ he could not help himself. Yet he did not answer.

“Come when your mission is done,” she affirmed her intention again, and they left the market complex side-by-side in silence as usual. That, until she decided to part ways, biding him a temporary goodbye and sealed it with a cheerful message. “Don’t forget!!”

As always, he would never be the first to say goodbye to her.

* * *

 

He pressured his horse to keep galloping.

He held his pocket watch tightly in his free hand, muttering a soft curse when the needles said half past eight. The hand he used to hold the rein was drenched in blood, and by then he had maintained that one-arm-riding for an hour. He did his best to keep his watch free from spilled blood, because she would notice if his pants were stained. And he absolutely had no intention to present himself in a foul manner before her.

_I am late._

His thoughts were dwindling as he quickly recounted what actually happened. Javarro sent him out to the client, the mission he talked to her in the morning when they shopped. He was told that a rich fellow’s group of bodyguards needed a helping hand in catching an agile thief. They briefed him about the thief and robbery occurrences at the mansion’s main hall where the master of the house treated him to tea and cake. Both were too sweet for his liking, and somehow his mind went through the soup she promised, imagining the savory broth and warm smoke he had overlooked since what felt like forever. He had yet another grilled meat with Javarro before departing, though—one of the nearly-uncountable plates of meat which the mercenary captain usually preferred above everything else. And those he prepared were usually just that. Savory, but in a monotonous way kind of savory, something of general taste made to suit a general eaters’ tongue without much thoughts otherwise. A survival food, he noted, which by then had become a habit.

It made sense for Javarro to only send him instead of a squad, as the rich man requested as well. Something about pride, he explained, gesturing to his bodyguards who brandished their weapons as they spoke. Ares knew they were appraising him like one would leer at crafts while windows-shopping at a blacksmith, and his thought was proven right because one of the bodyguards hissed. “So, this is the infamous Black Knight?”

“I am,” he replied sternly. He was not interested to chat, and let alone serving whatever nonsense these men might offer him. He just wanted the night to be over quickly because he figured an agile thief would not be easy to hunt down. Something else, though—was that soups would not hold on forever, and for the first time since the pitiful survival moments he bore as a child, he now wished for a bowl of warm soup.

“You don’t look tough at all. How did a pretty boy like you make a name as a sellsword?”

“By working,” he responded curtly.

The men were stunned by his blatant distaste of them. “Not much of a talker, aren’t ye?” the one who had asked questions walked forward, and the foul breath at his face nearly drove him to land his knuckles right at this boastful bodyguard’s lips.

“Perhaps that’s the difference between us,” he put on his grumpy face, giving Foul Breath his trademark death glare which barked a silent  _you are wasting my time, idiot_ warning.

“Kid, I just wanna know if you are worth the Boss’ money,” the bodyguard was taken aback—now by the death glare the Black Knight just gave more than the curt replies the supposed infamous mercenary hammered on them.

“Then ask him, who  _hired me_.” He flashed a menacing smirk, turning his attention to the master of the mansion, who had been watching the confrontation gleefully.

“Come on now, Black Knight,” his host clapped hands to stop them.  _Cling!_ sounds echoed in the room as precious gems, framed as rings, collided with each other when his host made the gesture. 

Ares spared a bitter smile. Rich people always found a way to spend their money, and often times, in a very weird way possible. True that back then his father had gifted jewelries and precious stones for both his mother and Aunt Lachesis, but most of them were kept safely inside each other’s closet only to be taken out for gala dinners, banquet lunches, and state meetings. Of course his mother had parures, but as far as he could remember, no way his mother would wear all the rings of said parure sets together like this. What he just remembered, however, was how regal his mother would present herself during state events Aunt Lachesis also attended as part of the Nordion royal household. The best gems would be taken out to be polished until they shone like none other, and parure set would decorate his mother the way ancient queens bathed themselves in diamonds. His mother would proudly extend her hand to receive hand kisses from distinctive guests, firmly nodded when they greeted her with her formal title, contrary to the simpler bows and curtsies saved for Aunt Lachesis. When the event was over, however, his mother would keep the precious treasures safely locked in her closet again, and reiterated to him about the importance of saving and not to gloat on what you had in front of the common folks.

“What did you lose personally so far?” he wanted to get back in the business. Rapidly.

“None,” the master of the house spoke. “And that is why I am restless enough. You see, this thief knows his way inside decorated citizens’ private compartments. It is as if he got rich people radar there, and whatever magic he used to incapacitate his targets had been incomparable so far. That's what they told me, because how if it was a mere swordsmanship, how?”

“Frankly, milord—“ he nearly vomited in his mouth when he said the honorific—“I have never heard of such thief or astounding ability.”

“So! Is the Black Knight afraid of a single thief?” Foul Breath cut in.

“None of your bodyguards ever tried identifying what sort of tactics and weapon he uses?” Ares countered back, enjoying Foul Breath’s reddened face as he shifted his sitting position. Spread legs. Arms resting comfortably on the chair’s leaves. Dominance.

Awkwardness ensued as the host quickly retorted. “He has not attacked us so far, which is why I invited you here.”

“I see. Still, none could at least predict what it was? You made me think that he was scary enough that it would take five bodyguards to manhandle him all  at once,” Ares reached for the cup, and nearly grimaced because of the taste. Overwhelming sweetness engulfed his taste buds like a giant sea wave destroying anything under it. He frowned, getting increasingly impatient.  _Why were these rich folks only getting haplessly obnoxious day by day?_  He thought, taking another sip to convince himself that out of the things a rich man could ruin, even grandeur made it in the list. Were they not supposed to be used to it?

“They wanted the money bags I kept under the bed,” the host tried again.

“You keep money  _bags_ under the bed?” Ares responded as if talking to a child. “Despite the lurking danger that is a master thief, and possible assassination if he is after the money?”

“W-well…” the host, realizing what the Black Knight had done, quickly conceded. He expected the Black Knight to kill a person, not actually overpowering him through a battle of wits. “You don’t understand. If this matter spread like fire, people would be restless and nobody would believe in anything anymore, you see. With stories of looming danger traveling outside these walls, who would come to do business anymore? What happened if people stopped spending their money around here? What happened if people here could not do business anymore since we got shunned? Inflation.”

“I could not care less with your grand theories there, but a little suggestion though—perhaps you can relieve that burden by sparing breads for the poor rats at the streets,” Ares replied bitterly again. Perhaps the tea was too sweet and he needed something to balance the taste… “Regardless,” he rose from his seat, “a job paid is a job done. Consider your request taken.”

“Oh, thank you!” the host hurried forward, enveloping him into a big, snaky embrace, too awfully close to his liking, too much of personal space invasion. He held his ground there, nodding slightly while listening to the host’s blabbering praises about his fearsome reputation.

* * *

 

“Fuck,” Ares ducked as he sensed something coming. An arrow head went past his left ear while the other flew just slightly above his head. He held his pocket watch between his teeth, finally unsheathing Mystletainn with the same hand. A large tree branch fell as he made a sharp cut, providing a surprise and barrier to the path as he continued mounting. His stomach felt like hurricane, and his equestrian skill was tested with the rocky ground and large tree roots over it.

“Don’t let him escape!”

Ares ducked again, saving his right eye just in time when another arrow head wildly came for him. He did not expect the other, though, and his body stiffened when the second head pierced through his left shoulder like a thunderbolt. Painful sensation overcame all his senses as he held his cry tight in his throat. Ares held on to a tree, and rolled himself off the horse. He gave his mount a quick pat on the butt so the mount saved itself before other four arrow heads rushed at their direction.

He breathed. Slowly, slowly, slowly. Something about withstanding pain when he learned basic first-aid methods to save himself from cuts and bruises, as mercenaries like him most likely would not see a healer until the next town or so, at least. As he took his refuge behind thick bushes and tall trees, he examined his arrow wound. Nasty enough, but not untreatable. He drew a small pocket under his cape, showing the first-aid kit he carried and would refill during his market stroll with Lene each morning. He took out a piece of linen, wetting it with rose honey. Hastily grabbing the Mystletainn, he aimed the blade at his injured shoulder, and…

Ares rolled his cape, biting into it as a makeshift gag to muffle his own cries as he performed the surgery. Mystletainn tore into his flesh, creating a probe, little by little until he could pluck the arrow head out. “Mmmghh—aaammhh—!”

 _Don’t be late, alright?_ —she said.

Cold, cold, bloody night. He panted, violently biting into the cape as he began stitching his wound. His body was about to give in due to the pain and exhaustion from withstanding the pain as Mystletainn started to somberly glow in the dark, reflecting the moonlight shining on it. He tumbled to the ground, thinking how pathetic if this wretched mansion’s garden was to be his burial place. Not even after avenging his father. Not even after tasting a bowl of warm soup after so long…

Suddenly he felt so hot, as if he was being burnt from the inside. Ares gasped, dragging his weary injured body to the river and greedily drank the water. He wondered what happened, because supposedly he had sterilized the bandage and he did not even have fever yet if that wound was infected. And he knew there should be at least a night before the effect kicked in.

Ares closed his eyes, trying his best to repress the pain. He had been in the host’s master bedroom as agreed, eager to catch the thief so he could gallop to the bar as promised. When he heard someone breaking the lock, he was ready to send his regards with the unsheathed Mystletainn.

Someone was indeed there, looking confused if not dazzled. As if registering what happened, the person lunged at him, and he parried before launching a powerful counterattack which successfully got the thief on the abdomen area. Swift deadly riposte, graceful like a sparrow, stung like a bee. He huffed to check on his target when the host and his five stupid bodyguards barged in, brandishing their own weapons at him.

“What?”

“That you are dismissed?” the host replied, gloating at his bewildered look as moneybags were being kicked toward his way. “Your payment, Black Knight. Enjoy it… in hell where you belong!”

“So it is a set-up,” he smirked, parrying the first blow that was about to get him. “How very noble of you. Did you kill your dog this way as well?”

“Well, well, don’t begrudge me, Black Knight. You have to understand,  _someone like you_ has no place in this society,” the host calmly explained while the bodyguards started to surround him. “You are a torn in our lives and your life is expendable. Thanks to you, people with real job like them cannot even breathe. This world has no further use of people who disrupt hierarchy like you.”

_Huh…?_

“Don’t you think you’ve been way too cocky for your own good?” the host started again. “And everyone who found out will only hear that the infamous Black Knight attempted to barge into my honorable residence and killed my loyal master butler.”

“… And I assume you told him that  _I am_ the thief?”

“Exactly. Apparently your pretty head is not empty,” the host signaled the bodyguards. “Sadly, I will part it from your shoulders.”

 _Ares, your father **—  
**__**W** hat is the matter, Mama? Why are you crying?  
__… It has to be a mistake, my cub. It has to be… or else… how are we going to **—  
**__**M** ama?  
__Ares, he is branded a traitor. They—his head_ **—  
**__**H** is head, Mama?

Ares exhaled, closing his eyes for a second. But the moment he opened them again, they spelled nothing but murder. His eyes glistened, barking a warning akin to a roaring lion who announced his arrival to his next prey. “There is something you do not understand as well,” Ares readied his stance. Sheer deadly coldness serenaded an unsheathed blade. “The moment you decide to mark me, the moment Mystletainn marks you as my prey.”

* * *

 

Ares lay down with half-closed eyes. His pocket watch was thrown some centimeters before him when he abruptly got off the horse, but he managed to blurry catch what it said: nine o’clock. He silently prayed the dance was merrier than usual because that would guarantee a wild crowd hungry for an encore, which he could use until he could buy his escape.

He glanced at the small first-aid kit pack beside him. Mystletainn still appeared to be glowing, and he forced himself to get up, slightly relieved to see his bleeding had stopped, hoping his little self-performed surgery had worked well. His stomach churned again, and he wondered if something was still wrong even though he felt his strength slowly coming back. His mother did tell him a thing or two about inheriting a major holy crusader’s blood, though—this thing about surging power other swordsmen might lack, his body naturally responding to the regalia weapon while other fighters would not be able to unlock its potential. Being adept at some things, healthier upbringing. Still, the weird sensation in his stomach…

“He must be here. I shot him well, even if the pretty boy escaped, wouldn’t be far.”

“Tch,” he smiled cynically, using Mystletainn as a stick to help him getting up.

“See? Found ye, dastard!”

“Hello there,” his voice was low and there was a gleam of blood lust in his light flaxen-hazel eyes like a wolf that bared its fang to its potential preys. “You did not shoot me ‘well’, moron. Otherwise, I would have been dead.”

“You… Black Knight—“

“Let me make it clear again. A blade turned against me in a cold dark night is not new. What they did not tell you was I would not be the one to die that night.”

“Wha— …”

“Why don’t you ask them what happened?” Ares prepared an attacking stance. “… In hell.”

They wildly lunged at him, and he parried their strikes one by one. The boiling feeling resurfaced each time he moved his body to respond to the attacks, which slowed him down until they cornered him to a tree. Gasping, Ares reflexively touched his stomach while his brain tried to formulate the most effective moves he could launch to end the fight.

That was until one of them said something which caught his attention.

“Did you like your tea, Black Knight?”

“What do you…”

“Poison tasted awfully sweet, didn’t it?”

“Bastard!” Ares bellowed, greeting the attacker with a cold, hard balled fist. As the attacker gasped while trying to salvage a broken nose, Mystletainn swiftly took over and made a hideous slashing sound as it landed diagonally over the attacker’s collarbone to the hip. Nerve-wrecking cries of pain followed shortly after, and Ares grabbed the other guy, pinning his hands to force him into a hogtie position as he kicked that person in the right back to cut off the latter’s oxygen flow. It worked. Another pleading gasp, and Ares simply brought down Mystletainn to vertically end him from above the head.

… Two down, three more to go. He had to hold on to a tree as his body tumbled back and forth due to sudden violent coughs which overtook him. However, as the third attacker gloated over his misery, Ares forced himself to jump backward, luring the attacker to rain over him. A fatal mistake because Mystletainn pierced through his stomach, leaving a pool of blood as the body helplessly fell on the ground.

Another cough. His pocket watch kept ticking at his feet. Lene's face danced in his mind, and so did his imagination of fragrant smoke flying gracefully out of a bowl of soup. “Run, before my blade feast on you too,” Ares barked, hoping it would work because he  _had_ to go back. And sure he would need some time to erase the traces of struggles before meeting her. He imagined a merry night, and no way in hell he would take all those attentions to himself.

“You are dying, Black Knight,” his attacker responded. “Sounds like we have to part you limb by limb instead of just that pretty head of yours.”

“Dying?” Ares steadied his breath as he went in another charging stance. “Youare already dead.”

“Conceited fool!—Ack—!”

And there the Black Knight was, standing in all the menacing manner a human could ever imagine. His golden hair shone over the silvery moonlight as his eyes commanded death. Sharp cheekbones, deathly glare, bloody blade tip as his opponent wailed in agony, clutching to whatever remained from his legs as Mystletainn slashed them into two pieces. “You are dying,” the Black Knight growled as every fiber of his being screamed murder. Glancing at the other attacker, he spoke. His voice was deep and low, conveying the deadly potent threat the host owed him so much. “Take this piece of meat back to your craven cur lord,” he began. “And tell him this for me—“

“Y… yes— _Sir_ ," he felt the other man trembling as if he was engulfed in tremor.

“I am pretty busy," Ares hissed. “And I've got no time for playing.”

“W-whoaaa! Forgive us! Spare me, spare us!”

“Scram, you scoundrels!” his words accompanied them and their bloody footprints as they desperately dragged their bodies together. He couldn’t care less if they did not make it back to the manor. Like hell he would care.

The coughing spasms returned and he punched himself on the stomach. He whimpered, feeling like now he  _had_ enough reason to excuse himself for showing pain since he had warded off his attackers. His stomach churned again, and he gave another strong jab onto his abdomen. Nausea attacked his senses as he threw up every wretched thing he had at the mansion, slowly feeling his temperature returned to normal.

It was a cold, cold night.

* * *

 

Lene peeked from the backstage. People were cheering and wildly demanded anotherencore, yet he was nowhere to be found. She sighed while heating the soup she promised him at the bar’s spare stove. A part of her felt great because her friends loved her soup, though. Everyone agreed that it had been a cold, cold night, so her soup was the savior whose coming was very much welcomed. Well, if Ares did not like the idea of eating her food, he could just reject her in the morning, right?—she thought, as she gave the pot another stir. She caught Javarro’s muscly body lingering around near the front seats, and despite her distaste toward the mercenary chief, she knew he was the closest she could get to in order to reach Ares. “Chief Javarro?” she called on him.

The mercenary chief turned around, agile and nimble despite his size and built. He saw her small face hesitantly peeked outside at the kitchen’s threshold. “Oh, it is you. The prima donna. What ya need?”

She had grown used to Javarro’s critical eyes and disapproving tone, but this time she was in a rather foul mood to tolerate the disrespect. “It’s Ares,” she reasoned, slowly.

“Ares? Ya have business with my boy? Hiring him to murder a rival dancer or some other petty cat fight he is supposed to be responsible for?” the chief smirked. Awfully.

“No, Chief,” she tried to keep her patience and trained polite dancer smile. “Is he back yet?”

“Nah? Why do you care again?” the Chief walked closer to her, before continuing in a hissing manner, which nearly made her want to leap and flee right away. “Listen. Dontcha think I know nuffin of yer foolery here.”

“What… is…?” she wanted to protest, but Javarro got her arm. Her eyes bulged in horror. Their distaste against each other seemed to be mutual, but so far their interactions had been civil if not cordial. She was aware Ares' allegiance first and foremost rested with the group.

“You are attentive of my boy. Sssh, don’t debate me, child. He seems to care about you. That business, I don’t fucking care. I wouldn’t even hold it against him if he loves the taste of beautiful women, because who fucking doesn’t?”

“You should ask Ares about that, but I doubt you will know anything because he is a gentleman,” her fiery tongue quickly caught up as she stood her ground.

“Like hell I care how gentle or how much of a man he actually is, child. What I mean is this. I have no idea what happened between you and Ares, but I hope you are not trying to sabotage him by deviating him from the path he is currently treading now. Ya got me? No weak ideals pillow-talk crap. You should know he only listens to me.”

“I did not know you named your dog after him,” she replied indignantly. “Is that all, Chief? For hell’s sake, all I asked is whether he got back or not.”

“No, he hasn’t. What the fuck is happening, someone got his head?” the Chief responded dismissively, yet it sent chills down her spine. Did something happen to Ares? “Listen. You are brave and fiery, and Imma give it to you. But careful. At least Ares got that sword and might to back him up, while ye—“

“I have no intention to temper myself for the favor of men, Chief.”

“Naïve aren’t you? We’re not talking about marriage eligibility, but life and death situation,” the Chief responded. “Since my boy seems to care, ya better mind yer life a bit too. Yeah, people are asshats, child. And what can you do about it besides screeching over there?”

Lene sat in the kitchen, absorbing what Javarro meant to tell her. Did she hinder Ares without knowing? Had she been an obstacle for him? And this offer too… was it too much and now she sulked because he did not do as she said? She simply thought how sad it would be to live a joyless life when something simple as vegetable soup was that much of an oddity. It was not that she did not notice Ares’ ashy gazes each time they went shopping even though he bought in bulk and practically swam in money as a well-known mercenary squad’s ace. This morning he seemed to be more preoccupied with his own thoughts more than usual, and being a simple honest person that she was, she had always thought that a warm bowl of soup could change even the coldest of days… or people.

The soup was in its perfect warmth as she lifted her pot from the stove. She thanked the barmaid profusely for letting her use their stove and the latter did not turn down a bowl while she busied adding more firewood into the hearth. 

Lene peeked again. The crowd slowly dismissed themselves as the night went on, leaving a couple of people still finishing their meals or dead-drunk at the table. Still, no sign of the Black Knight or his distinctive golden hair, and his trademark black cape.

“Perhaps I’m forcing what I want too much,” she relented, sighing. “And perhaps I overlooked that I was the only one wanting that.” She only hoped Ares would be honest, at least. He did tell her again and again how he never meant to hurt her, but if this was his way to do it, then  _that_ would be hurting instead.

“The potatoes, or something else?” a firm deep voice surprised her from behind.

“Ares?” she quickly turned around, feeling utterly relieved to see his towering figure there, at the entrance of the backstage. “Gods! You… came.”

“I did,” he responded simply.

“You are late, so I asked the Chief about you,” she whispered, thinking if it was only her imagination that she thought of seeing a white cloth bandaging his upper arm. But he did not look perturbed, so… decoration? “You look rather… ragged.”

“Am I dirty?” he replied. Simple tone, simple innocence, and for a moment nobody would have thought that this was the Black Knight.

“I don’t mean that. Even if you are, I was just hoping that nothing disturbed you on the way  here.”

“Ah, about that.”

“Yes?” she braced herself for story of disaster. Perhaps something happened. Perhaps—

“I lost my money,” there was a subtle mischievous grin on his usually-stern face, which disappeared as if preventing her to catch up on it. “So I spent some time looking for it.”

“That’s very unfortunate… have you talked about it to the Chief?”

“I plan to,” his demeanor shifted to be more serious. She wondered what for. Did he lose his entire darn wallet and now Javarro had to cover for him like a father? He wasn’t letting her lost in her own thoughts, however, since he suavely pointed at her pot. “So you promised me some soup. Is there a bowl left now that I am late?”

“Yes, of course!” her eyes lighted up as she scooped a serving for him. He received the bowl she handed without making any comment, blew on it before bringing the bowl to his lips. She, however, noted how his eyes were closed as he savored the food. “How?”

“Tasted like soup,” he answered simply.

“You remember all the spices I got in the morning, right?” her reply was a hesitant one. “I made it spicier and more savory, with herbs that could help you withstand these cold nights and distinctive weather differences. Was it too much?”

“No,” his answer was straight-forward this time. “Because it tasted like… food. … Real food.”

Lene paused, watching him having another gulp.  _Real food,_ she reminded herself that he just said that. Their morning conversation replayed in her head—his indifferent manner, his uncaring attitude of what went inside his body. “Oh…” she was overwhelmed with sudden delight that she reflexively cupped her mouth. “I was about to use some soy sauce but I thought too much sweetness could be risky, so I did not. I wonder, do you hate sweet—“ she quickly brought her hand down as he was done with the bowl.

“I don’t hate you.”

Silence.

“Give me another one,” he quickly urged, making a coughing sound as he gestured to loosen his cravat. “Assume responsibility for inviting me!”

“Sure, sure,” she laughed along, scoping another serving for him. 

It seemed the night was warmer than usual that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the first-aid reference was taken from the event of the Battle of Shrewsburry where physician John Bradmore treated a wounded Henry V.
> 
> Ref link:
> 
> https://www.quora.com/How-would-a-medieval-renaissance-doctor-treat-an-arrow-wound


	10. Without

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright I was doubting myself writing this because I had several ideas on what to make of this 'Without' theme. Planned this to be focused on Ares, but kind of shifted in the end I guess. The Lene-appreciation moments I designed turned to be appreciation for women in general. About time :P 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this one is enjoyable enough. Thank you for reading so far!

"So that will be five kilos of meat, 250 grams of peppers, five large blocks of salt, and..."

He absent-mindedly nodded when they started counting his purchase. Glancing around, there was a rather odd feeling he could not explain. Something just felt wrong.

His typical go-to market was busy as usual in the morning. Shoppers were even more anticipative when someone shouted something about fishmongers finally got their cargo if anyone wished to check for seafood. Men and women dressed in typical uniform began to race their way to the cargo, and he glanced understandingly at them. Their clothes showed that they worked for rich households. 

Being a desert area, marine products were a rarity in Darna mostly sought only by those with thick wallets. Summers often made the most festive months of the year, and having lobsters and fish delicacies on a banquet table had been a subtle, yet most effective way to make a statement of public display of abundance. Common people usually spent the most during spring, with folk festivities and shopping for needed materials they could use to grow crops and breed animals.

The money belt season, as Javarro called it. And this time he could not agree more with his mercenary group's chief and adoptive father. Their group also tasted the effect. They had been getting more requests than usual, mostly tasked to accompany delivery cargoes and carts or even protect rich masters and mistresses as bodyguards. Seasons of entertainment usually meant vacation seasons for the rich, and not only did they travel extensively, they would also tend to have a luxury shopping spree moments. Accompanying rich people shopping usually fell on Javarro himself, and seeking for a service from the chief usually meant the group got paid the highest rate they could bargain for.

"Will that be all, Sir?"

"Ah. ... Yes," startled, his voice came off rather meek. Again, he glanced around, trying to find something familiar he had been used to all these months— _five, I guess,_  he thought again, almost could not belief himself. It was long enough to grow on him, yet pretty normal on paper because five months was a pretty safe timespan for most people. Not long enough to be something... unusual, or even memorable, perhaps, but not short enough to be ignored. And yet he felt like he had been in the situation since forever, and even if he did not want to admit it, memorable was the right way to frame everything because clearly he was disturbed when things did not go as usual.

"Is something amiss?" the shopkeeper asked again, noticing how confused he must look because he had a silent inquiring expression, as if searching for something that was too surreal to tell.

"Yes. ... No. I think no," he quickly toned down his voice.

"Everything okay?" the shopkeeper asked again. "Wait. You... you are the Black Knight, aren't you?"

"Certainly so," he awkwardly pulled out his wallet, stretching the flexible fabric that kept the cloth purse sealed to dig some banknotes out of it. "And yes. Yes, I am."

"You don't look yourself today," the shopkeeper muttered, taking the money handed to her.

"What is my usual self like, then?" he simply responded, patiently waiting her to count the money. The shopkeeper somehow mistook his question as chiding, and her face lost all its color as her hands stopped mid-air whilst counting his money. 

He sighed again. It was not the first time people reacted in fear when he approached them to interact. Of course he understood that being known as a mercenary group's deadliest swordsman would scare people away, but some days he wished  _shit_ —people, in particular, would just behave...  _normally_ , instead of interacting with him with caution. 

There would be some other days where people treated him like poking a wild animal with a stick—trying to get a raise out of him. When it failed, they called him creative names. The tamest being 'coward', while the most creative... well, he was close to snapping someone else's biceps when he heard another calling his mother a harlot. 

However his anger quickly dissipated when a familiar figure approached him, bringing the same warmth he needed that he withdrew after reminding the troublemaker to at least use past tense when talking about his mother. Seeing how feral his eyes were, what he said was taken as an order. The next thing he knew, people treated him like they were trying their best not to draw a monster out of its nest. Polite smiles, civil gestures, hasty retreats...

And he noticed he did not like the worship just the way he did not actually like being feared.

"Your change," the shopkeeper deferred. 

He sighed again when he took the money from her. "It's alright. I never meant to bother you with my chit-chat anyway." He was more used to curt speech, and at this point he did not care if that actually conveyed what he truly meant or not. He merely picked up the leather sack he used to shop for the group and walked away.

Circling the market for the last time with his eyes, he silently admitted the morning felt different and for some reasons he did not know, he was quite restless because of it.

* * *

 

He huffed. The men around him cheered, clinking their glass with each other. He looked down to see a collapsing wooden dummy with an ugly hole in its mid-section. A victim of a powerful thrust he launched. He could hear praises about might and how they would keep their pockets full, and somehow he did not like it. Not about the idea of making more money, sure—after all he was the group's strongest, as they dubbed him, the chief's successor too at that. It was a sudden realization that such thrust was not necessary, a silent witness to his own confusion that he could not even measure the necessary power or his own footing.

"I'm replacing that," he mumbled absent-mindedly. Again.

"Take your time," Javarro smirked. "And probably take down a few more, Ares! Glad to see your sword is still sharp because I thought the scorching heat would dull it. You looked disoriented since the morning, you know?"

"As if," he stated in a deadpan manner. "And I thought rich missions would exhaust you."

"Me? As if!" Javarro gave a hearty laughter before patting a cloth purse hanging on his belt. "The rich is happy. My wallet is happy. Mutual, eh? After all mostly it was just riding to follow these wealthy folks' carriages and our name started to be mortifying enough for petty bandits."

"Glad to hear that then," Ares sheathed the blade. His expression did not change. "But sounds like the only ones left are the worse kind of bandits if the petty ones were scared."

"The rich will not make a trip on unreasonable hours. And even if they hired us, they were quick to calculate the cost whether it would be wise to go out when the situation felt suspicious," Javarro reasoned. "I'll be leaving tomorrow for Melgen. Take care of everything while I'm gone, understood?"

"Melgen?"

"Some rich folks are not patient enough to wait for luxurious goods coming to Darna," Javarro shrugged. "They thought they'd rather cut the cost by traveling there.

"... With mercenaries. Efficient, huh?"

Javarro's eyes gleamed. "Not my concern if they cannot count. Should not be yours either. I'm not talking about standard-rich, my boy, but filthy-dirty rich, you got me? These people can throw their money on a whim and probably never counts in their life. Alster's Bloom does not hesitate when it comes to procure the best things Miletos can offer when his wife demands it. Sounds like some Friegian peacock trying to outdo a flock of Grannvalian peacocks, don't you think?"

"Beats me. Should I care?" Ares crushed a rock under his fist to test his strength.

"Now that's better," Javarro smirked again, placing his large hand behind the other's back. "Well, the point is that this Lady Friege is busy setting herself as paragon of nobility lifestyle by modeling after the Empire's latest trends. Miletos often sells to Grannvale because, you know, they are the one with most money considering—"

"—they would not let everyone else to be so, yes," Ares responded nonchalantly. "And she can be busy setting herself on fire for all I care. Go then, I'll take care from here. But tread cautiously, Javarro. After all if Friegian claws are there, then the Empire's talons follow."

"Of course I will, my sweet child," Javarro patted Ares' shoulders, prompting latter to flinch being called as such. "And what if either house seeks for our service? Wealthiest and most hated so far... match made in hell, eh, Ares? And if that happens perhaps we can finally settle down to leave this desert and its unforgiving heat."

"I thought you like it here because jobs are plenty and nobody curbs your tail?"

"I thought you agree about following the money?" Javarro cocked an eyebrow. "I'm aware staying here makes sense than pursuing uncertainties. Powerful Grannvale has more than enough manpower they need to fight for them. Do not envy something just because it used to be yours, dear boy. "

"... What do you mean?"

"Nordion. You were—well,  _are_  a prince."

"... Don't you ever." The Black Knight swore under his breath. His eyes turned sharper if not violent, as if those could easily light a great fire if landed on some wood. His gaze went to feel Mystletainn in its sheath, and a pang of sadness stabbed him in the chest. 

He hated it. 

He hated how he nearly choked whenever someone brought back the memories of living as a Nordion royalty. Because even if it was something mundane like shopping habits, he would be forced to relish the memories of his parents, a childhood where everything felt so secure including how his mother could buy whatever she wished. How she would take him along in carriage rides, visiting one shop from another and watched seamstresses and designers took her measurements before bringing out the best, most beautiful fabrics as samples she could try on. How they would service him with ice cream and all the other delicacies with the finest tea to keep him company as his mother tried on things. The high-quality red satin that draped over his father's shoulders, his beautiful velvet coat befitting a ruling lord of a realm... the elegant laces which decorated Aunt Lachesis' gowns, the guilty-yet-satisfied grin on his father's face when a servant picked up his horse's dressing fabric and face mask. 

 _Yes, it's a rather... competitive price._   _Don't tell your mother,_ he said, quickly took the receipt to tuck it in his pocket. But he would also casually spare some banknotes and gold coins, gathering them in a small envelope, scribing  _Dress for Grahnye_ on it. The envelope would be sealed as if it was an edict before the Lionheart eventually ushered his cub to bed.

He was not envious. If anything, he  _yearned_  for it. Not even because of the luxuries, but back then everything felt so safe and attainable. His father could simply laugh at any suitor's face that had offered wealth in exchange of Aunt Lachesis' hand in marriage because their estate provided them very well... and his mother could get all the venison she wanted. And sure nobody would call his mother the H word.

"Alright, easy there," Javarro relented. "You are not yourself today. If I have to boil you to return you to usual, trust me I will. Collect yourself there while I'm gone and you are mission-free today."

"Melgen is far. If you do plan to head there, hurry." 

It was the Black Knight's only response at the moment. Ares chuckled bitterly when Javarro turned away to get more supply arrows.  _Not myself? You people kept saying that, what even is my 'self' anymore?_

* * *

 

He had encountered people running around the streets looking fancy in their elaborate clothing. Parties. Festivities. Banquets. Whatever you might call them. Children ran around carrying snacks. Colorful ribbon samples flew gently out of accessories and clothing counter which put their silk bolts on display to anyone interested. Stalls of fresh fruits were pretty full, strategies of owners who just got their cargo and were aware enough of the shopping season. 

Yet something felt wrong and odd. With people telling him he was not himself today, he needed a grip to reality. To cling to something familiar to make him feel home again... since his was gone.

Ares entered the bar. "Got some lemon squash?" he hollered the barkeep.

"Alcohol, Black Knight?" the barkeep offered.

"No," Ares put noticeable firmness in his voice. He needed to be sober. And he needed time to think for himself without people engaging him in unrelated matters to snap out of this... disorientation. He was not even sure if he could call it as such.

"Unusual," the barkeep mumbled.

 _Again._ "Well, I'm not a drunkard," Ares grumbled, "nor am I an addict."

"Oh, not that. Besides, who dares to question your drink?" the barkeep laughed, passing a glass to him.

 _You just did,_ Ares thought as he silently sipped on his drink.

"Pretty rare to see you before the sun sets," the barkeep continued.

"A man got some free time sometimes," Ares mumbled again. "And right. This feels weird even to me."

"Perhaps you're just bored," the barkeep shrugged.

 _Bored?_ His eyebrows rose significantly. That did sound make sense. Perhaps he was not used to be idle like this—clueless without any destination, especially since Javarro was leaving for Melgen. Their mercenary group would basically fall under his leadership and supervision while Javarro was gone, and he wondered if he already dreaded the task because he did not want to be sociable, or... something else.  _Something else_ —the words themselves unsettled him somehow. Uncertainty; something unknown to him, and at the same time could mean  _anything._ Anything else. "Arm-wrestle me then," Ares suggested, still unsure. If he was bored then he had to find merriment.

"Gosh. Black Knight, I'm old. Where are the rest of your men?" the barkeep's laughter exploded.

"Gone to find their own amusements, I guess. Or rather, I left them."

"You quit?" the barkeep's eyes bulged.

"No," Ares responded in slower, heavier tone. If he sounded annoyed, would that mean his usual self was back and he indeed was just bored? "Javarro is leaving for Melgen. The fastest of his return will be around three days or even a week from now, so in the meantime—"

"You are the chief," the barkeep sighed—half in awe, half in... he was not sure, fear?

"Yes," Ares replied simply. "So I let them be. I don't think they like the idea of me leading them, anyway. Half of them probably want to fight me right now, and I do not cure boredom with mass murder, that would actually be  _boring_ —it was a joke," he quickly affirmed when the barkeep's face changed color. "Anyway, in the meantime file the requests to me. I will still be checking every day as usual, however."

"Then you look like you can use some entertainment yourself," the barkeep winked at him. "Have you heard of the 'Path of Flowers', Black Knight? The alley south from here, close to the path to Melgen?"

His peeked out from the glass. "Pass."

"The faithful type, aren't you? Haha, the girls will be heartbroken."

"What do you mean?" the glass was now set neatly on the counter.

"I forgot you already have it. You know, the prima donna. Belle of the desert—Lene."

_Lene._

When her name came into discussion the air around him tightened. He thought he was probably going to pass out of heat wave like other people— _finally,_ he mused, sarcastically, recalling how people had been asking him why heat did not bother him. Yet this one was not it. He waited for the universe turning yellow and dark with probably stars around, as Javarro once told him about concussion—and he would shrug because, well, without sounding like a prick, how would he know that if he never lost a fight?  _Yet—_ his cynical self countered. Still, it was not the engulfing darkness which would take away his consciousness. It was more like a sense of relief that there was finally a suggestion—even better...

_An answer?_

He nearly choked on his lemon when he thought so. Lene—the answer? Something was amiss, he reminisced. Something felt odd. Something was—

But he already grabbed the barkeep's graying beard without much thinking. "The  _fuck_ do you think I am?" he hissed at him. "Is that how people in this wretched garbage desert bin see her? Is that all about her that matters to you?  _Amusement—_ is that it? Are women not human to you?"

"No, I—"

"Then WHAT?!"

By then bar-goers and outside passerby stopped moving. Nobody could pretend they did not hear anything, because the Black Knight's wrathful bellowing could be heard from one street end to another. Ares inhaled deeply as he returned to his chair. The barkeep was as white as a corpse, and now profusely apologized to him. "I'm sorry—it's just—you know, with her job—and your relations—your job—I mean—there are other dancers who—"

"If you are just going to dig your grave deeper then perhaps keep your stupid mouth shut. ... Or I can do that for you, see, seems I am bored," Ares flashed the barkeep a dangerous smirk. "And I can hear you just fine. Yes, her job. And what of it? There are other dancers who do that, yes, and then  _what_?"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!!"

"Oh don't you dare. Apologize  _to her._ Did you say this to me because unlike her, I am not feeble nor will I just take all your insults and unwanted advances with trained polite smile?" he leaned forward again.

_"Eeeey, pretty boy. Yeah, you, the lordling. Oooh I know your ilk. Getting kicked out of your house so your majestic ass landed here, huh. And only because of that curious sword of yours? Don't make me laugh, you are just a dust of decadence old past and the Chief gave you an easy entry? Nobles have always been ridiculous. Foolish Quan of Leonster, for example. And that loser Eldigan of Nordion, haha! Heard his sister couldn't keep her legs shut around the knights. Ran in the family, huh, considering his wife was a common tart who probably whored her way to wear that consort crown... fucking cheap harlot—w... what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that? Hey—wait, Ares the Black Knight, isn't it? Hey—s-stay away from me! What's with this bloodlust, we are comrades of the same group! W-waaaaahhh!!"_

_Women,_ he closed his eyes again. Spent his childhood around them, grew up without. The first pressure he witnessed was that scary uncle—as little Ares dubbed him—Elliott, who would leer at his aunt and always detained her for boring small talks whenever Nordion had a banquet. He was hiding behind thick curtain when he heard the scary uncle muttered curses and disgusts about his father, yet it was Aunt Lachesis that was targeted. The smug proposal. The belittling. 

_**C** ome on, Princess. I can tame you. Who else can? You sure cannot marry your brother. Who likes a wild sharp-tongued princess anyway? _

While men humbled themselves before his father, they tried to pressure his mother instead. Sometimes, yes, but this sometimes was too often at times, and when it happened, harsher than any of this titled man ever posited their demand to his father. 

_**S** ure Your Ladyship knows that King Imka will not be pleased if his favored chamberlain got turned down in Nordion? Your Ladyship do not spend much time at the field unlike His Lordship, so it is understandable that your ladylike innocence will hinder us from sending the cross knights out to conquer some indigenous tribes at the north—they do not even follow the teachings of Bragi, Your Ladyship probably only heard of romantic things about them—_

Still, he recalled his aunt's defiant answer. The firm  _no_ she gave with her head held high as she gracefully gave a hand for Elliott to kiss. As a princess. A princess who just rejected the proposal. He recalled his mother's sky-tearing laughter she forced out to send the chamberlain back with his tail between the legs, the royal way of telling him to go fuck himself with a desert cactus—because first, she was informed of the matter, and second, she and the lionhearted ruler actually shared the same opinion regarding not oppressing the masses. And third, how delightful she would be to inform the King of a potential backstabber who loved to abuse power and acted on it in his misused name. And the fourth one about how Eldigan would not need the Mystletainn to slay a pathetic fool like this.  _A lioness,_  a cowering envoy whispered. The women of House Nordion were lionesses. The rightful family for the lionhearted lord and his heir cub.

"I can't—"

"Why?!" Ares' voice roared inside the bar. Without his mother, he would not even be alive. Without his aunt, he would not know what courage even meant. And then without Lene—

... Without Lene, he would have lost his humanity long ago, and none of these people would be alive to ask him why he was not himself today. Without Lene, he would not know that life was ever for him too, and friendships existed even in the most peculiar circumstances.

"She is not performing today," the barkeep's words were nearly in shambles. "Recuperating, she said. She had been dancing five hours for a week straight now because of the festivals. You probably did not know because you were out with the Chief to escort the wealthy for luxurious shopping sprees, right?"

 _So that IS the one that is missing,_ he strangely felt some kind of comfort after concluding that. 

_Her._

He had been so used to her taking care of him that something felt empty when she was not there. She often reminded him to recount his purchases before taking them home. To check on his purse. To be careful. To nudge him when a bird or whatever it was they encountered at street was close by.

Nobody else cared enough to say those things to him just because he had a demon sword and known as the strongest in the group. It was her who kept his feet on the ground, to keep his head humble, in a way—especially when his grudge started clouding his mind whenever he blindly tried to track the Liberation Army's movements. The one who chided him for... not eating vegetables. And then buying him vegetables. And then cooking him vegetables. The one who flatly asked if his group killed children. The one who threw his blood-stained shirt into fire after nearly passed out by the sight of it. The one who kept pestering him about sword training, and regardless of almost fell and cowered by his swordsmanship, did not falter.

The one whom life put down and held under water, but did not despair.

_... What am I without you, Mother?—As well as you, Aunt Lachesis... and..._

_**L** ionesses are women of House Nordion, befitting the Lionheart and the Cub!_

Somehow the idea of dubbing Lene as a lioness made him blush. Somehow... somehow. And he was no longer a cub. He was  _the_ cub, and later on he would be the new... Lionheart. And that wild idea somehow made his face even redder... somehow.

"Five hours, one week straight, not to mention despicable audience like this," his brows dove even deeper. "And what are you again?"

"Wait, I'll make it up to you—her, I promise! But I need your help."

"Oh? Very well. I'm listening, so bargain with your fucking life."

* * *

 

She sighed for the tenth time today.

She had been keeping a note to remind herself diligently rubbing her feet with a mixture of oil and herbs. There was a bottle of fused rose tinctures on a small countertop near her bed with a glass of water. The bottle was nearly empty because she had been using the remedy to relieve muscle strain. She glanced at her pocket watch again, forcing herself to sit. She grumbled and called herself stupid for forgetting the stove-top infusion she was making, and if she did not pick it up on time, she would be wasting some good dose of ginger root, honey, wort, and rosemary leaves decaying in a pool of olive oil. Alas, she also forgot to prepare the cramp bark she could use for tea as well.

Her hands moved to gently massage the area around her ankles. She felt so sore, and that was rather expected. Crazy holiday seasons, she mused. The crowd loved her, the rich from Alster scheduled her while they were there with their family. Money talked, she accepted, and since when did the rich understand a no? She would not differentiate clients and singled them out. As long as they came to see dances and paid for them, she would be there. But it irritated her when people pushed her to take more requests because if rejected, Darna's—and Yied's in general—reputation would go down in flames. And local businessmen were already anxious to get buyers considering their geographic location if not the old adage of, well, who the fuck wanted to make the Yied a tourist hotspot, anyway.

 _But not this much,_ she made a  _tch!_ sound with her tongue, genuinely annoyed this time. After sleeping like a log for the whole day—partially because she was too sore to move, she realized she had to do something for the legs. Her treasure, her weapon, her ticket to freedom—her legs, trained dancer legs. She had been flexing them probably too much and now those legs bore more fatigue than they could handle. Speaking of fatigue, her arms were rather aching too, and it was so annoying because it was as if she was held hostage and tied to her bed. Her body was disobeying her, it demanded the nice long bed rest she kept promising it each night of the five days she got out of the house to perform.

And she was hungry too, goddarnit. To add more to her misery, candles needed to be lighted  when the sun eventually set because she did not have the time to refill the oil in her lanterns. Her lips parted into a tight sad smile—so much to do, so little time, and her own body was holding her back. Not only that, she had to keep a tab on her perusal of the herbs. The wealthy paid, yes. She was showered in praises, yes. Yet it was still nothing compared to the money which the wealthy easily spent in luxurious boutiques and shops—and there she was, had to be frugal about her daily clothes and barely could even buy her own medicine.

 _Fucking shit,_ she thought.

The sound of boiling herbs in her pot somehow sounded so similar to a drowning person.

_Move, darn it._

Her joints snapped. She yelped in pain.

"Fuck this," she swore, gripping her countertop to stand.

There was a loud crashing sound and she stared helplessly when her rose water bottle broke. Shards of glass mixed with liquid scattered near her bed, and she was even more anxious to walk. Defeated, she slammed her body on the bed, feeling utterly useless and helpless. After sending off some neighboring kids to procure the herbs and tipping them—being reminded of that, she hurriedly opened her drawer to check on her savings.

And just then her sadness started piling in her throat as her tears forced their way out.

She heard a gentle knocking outside, and at this point she resolved herself that if it was yet another dancing job, she was determined to shoot the messenger. Or she  _could_ reconsider provided she asked the client for transportation and probably charged a bit more just so she could buy herbs. "Coming," she shouted. But no, she could not. At least not so soon. With the glass shards around her, childhood game of 'the floor is lava!' came true as a nightmare.

 _A shard,_  she took mental note.  _Be careful—be caref—_ "Ouch!"

She wanted to give up... 

No, she was already giving up. And she finally did. Confined to her own bed as she tore a fabric of her dress to dry the fresh blood. Alone. Without anyone else to take care of her. And usually...

 _Ares,_ she whispered the name. Somehow the name managed to bring some hope in her—of course she did not tell him, why would she again? Probably he would be weirded by that or calling her childish, and she could not decide which one was worse. But Ares was attentive. He was no fool, and he noticed things others did not simply because he paid attention to his surroundings. Well, one of the men who knew where her  _eyes_ actually were. And speaking of whom, it had been about two weeks without Ares so far. Usually he would drop by for drinks on a cold night, refreshments when warm—but either cold or warm, he asked if she already booked a carriage or had food. Ares did not strike her as an art-aficionado, but he was often there watching while he picked up missions and information from the barkeep.

Ares probably would grill her to rest. There would be a great chance that she would begrudge him for that, but eventually with him around she  _would_  have the rest she needed. With him around, nobody would dare to pressure her.

... Which she wanted to know why, really. Perhaps it was safe enough to refer to him as a friend—or acquaintance, to make it sound more casual—yet she had distanced herself from men that in a life full of subtle survival mechanisms she had given up the prospect of having a male friend.  _They started it,_ she pondered, glancing at the sword positioned against her bedpost. An idea came so suddenly—she had witnessed Ares easily leaned on his sword to rise from a sitting position, so perhaps—

Another  _thud!_  because her legs did not let go. She nearly forgot that doing so required a surface where her sword to dig into, and even if she was so willing to stab her own floor at this point, she would need some strength to do that. And generating strength meant a stable position with planted legs. Considering her legs were staging a coup against her now—and as much as the question of strength got involved—oh yes, sure, he was Ares. How could she even forget, darn it.

Another knock.

"Lene, dear, are you there?"

Someone was calling her from outside, and she was relieved she recognized the voice. The elderly woman who ran the herbs shop at the market. The kind woman whose little house she passed by each time she left the bar from dances, and the woman who often shared dinner or leftover sandwiches with her for breakfast. "Herbs Grannie?" she called back from inside. "I... um..."

What? That she could barely walk, she broke a bottle into pieces of glass shards, and the cramped flat she lived in probably would catch a fire because she still had not turn off the stove? Or the fact that she could not even say she was not feeling well because it would damage the dearly reputation of Darna, of the bar, and— _I don't know, what the fuck even is humanity again?_

"A—ack!" She punched her pillow. Stupid  _motherlover_   _effin_ shard—

"Pardon me," she heard a low voice from the outside.

She blinked.

"Again, pardon me." Low Voice spoke again and she could hear sounds of metal colliding with metal until something heavy fell to the floor, making a thumping sound. And she gasped.

It was him. The possessor of beautiful golden folks with murderous eyes with legendary death glares, clad in black cape and golden accents covering his shoulder armor. Destroyer of the night, signer of a piling dead bodies in a dark alley.

Alright, it was Ares. And... Mystletainn?

... Yes, Mystletainn. Unsheathed. Hungry.

She gasped when his boots fucking trod over the glass shards with the elderly herbs lady desperately trying to catch up with him.

"Where is the fucker?"

"... What?" she blinked again.

"Where is the lowlife human waste son of a bitch who took you hostage?"

"...... What?"

"I had words from the barkeep that you were recuperating. They enslaved you."

"Enslaved—barkeep—he told you?"

Ares merely nodded. "We had a nice chit-chat."

"... Nice... chit-chat?"

"Apologies for the door. I'll fetch a blacksmith to repair that. On me. I also got back from escorting. Two weeks with the Chief selling our bodies to the wealthy. Chief is out again for now, but I got paid. So pick a new padlock, I won't even peek to see the design, rest assured, the door will be secure."

"Selling—Ares—padlock—"

"Not that kind of selling. Rest assured as well—wait, that shouldn't matter to you, right?"

"... You were with a woman? Women?"

"Women? What women?"

Lene facepalmed. "First of all, Ares—"

"I heard you cuss. And then you screamed. I counted two times. That one was the loudest. 'Motherlover'? Come on, Lene, aren't we adults—motherfucker."

"Um—"

"That was not meant for you, of course. I'm simply showing."

"Alright—"

"So where is this fucking knave? There?"

"Ares, wait!" she grabbed his arms when Mystletainn was about to run through her closet.

"Do not protect him. I won't give quarter even if you do."

"Areeees!"

"Yes? Oh—"

It was Ares' turn to blink. She grabbed him, her face was all red with laughter as tears rolled down her cheeks. Surge of relief met with tickling sense of ensued hilarity. He came. He did come. After days without, after his null presence at the bar or his usual table. "I'm alone here," she continued. Ares wondered if she even realized she was basically resting her head over his stomach at this point because she grabbed him from the bed, but much to his own surprise, he did not mind it. At all. If anything, it felt like a testament of proof; that she was indeed there, living, breathing... and still the Lene he knew, the Lene that somehow made his day felt so odd without.

 _... Is that it?_  He mumbled again. So he was cranky because...

Because she was not there?

"Careful, those are sharp shards over there!" she pulled him in, and he gasped as his weight knocked her to the bed. She reflexively yanked his cravat for a grip, and he nearly tumbled on top of her—

"... Lene, dear, seems you are okay..." the herbs shop owner smiled. Too wide for Lene or Ares; and too ominous to ignore. He cleared his throat while she tidied his cravat, and in awkwardness, slapped his face with it. Both women paused in motion—herbs lady in disbelief, Lene in pure shock.

And just then, Ares chuckled. He shook his head, leaning the Mystletainn near her sword against the bedpost. "I'm such a fool today," he whispered as if talking to himself, but his eyes glistened with... joy? Intention for a revenge? Regardless, he gently seated himself at the side of her bed, and spoke in his typical caring mannerism as his typical self would when he did want to convey such intention to her. "First of all, I'm so sorry for barging in. I did arrive here hearing you scream and something broken, so..." his expression turned serious. "I was informed you lived here alone. At this hour your usual neighbors are only kids because their parents are still out selling things at the market."

_You are not like yourself today, Black Knight._

"And I thought if I was to be late even a minute longer, you would have—no, I would have—"

_... I would have lost you._

"You did think I'm being held hostage?" her jaw dropped.

He nodded.

"But why are you dragging the herbs lady?"

"Oh. That." She could not unsee it. He ran his finger to awkwardly scratch his temple as if she just caught him doing something mischievous, red-handed. "You are recuperating," he answered, his tone was firm and flat as if delivering a factual report to a military commander. "I was thinking you probably need something. But of course, I have no idea what you might need, so I thought..."

"You get the herbs lady and her entire bags of herbs to come for me," she finished his sentence, feeling amazed, and...

_Oh, Ares. Dear, dear Ares—_

He nodded again. "Her herb bags are outside. I have the barkeep's cart connected to my horse."

"All of them?" she gasped again, but he simply nodded. Again.

"I will take them in so you can choose what you need," came his simple reply. "Anyway... a broom?"

Both women sat on the bed as Ares grabbed a broom and began to sweep the floor. Gone were the dangerous shards by the time he returned to drop them into a trashcan outside, and Lene was too stunned to respond to the herbs lady's teasing about the well-meaning but awkward-as-heck Black Knight who nearly maimed a closet thinking she was in danger. 

That, or the Black Knight who unhesitantly picked up a broom to clean her floor. Or the Black Knight who easily took a boiling pot from the stove before it was too late. Ares knew they wanted an explanation, so he just shrugged. "My mother was frail and sickly as I grew up. I'm used to these things because I fended for both of us."

"... I did not know..." she mumbled.

"Now you do." His gaze was warm as if telling her it was okay.

"The other men—"

"—who had never helped with house chores? They are morons."

"Yes!" the herbs lady screamed in unison, and quickly toned herself down, surprising the young people in the room and prompting them to make a bewildered expression.

"So you were practically... alone?" she whispered.

"Without a mother? Figuratively so... and then literally." His gaze was still just as warm... "Found things you need?"

"Ah? Yes—yes, thank you!" Lene started sorting out the needed herbs to the herbs lady, and the women quickly engaged in talking about remedies. 

Herbs lady turned to be knowledgeable. She prescribed muscle-reliever remedies for Lene and shared old tips to relieve cramps and muscle pains. "A witch doctor they dubbed me," she laughed with some sort of pride in her voice, retreating to the pantry to brew some tea.

"I..." somehow being left alone with Lene got the Black Knight tongue-tied.

She fidgeted. So much awkwardness in the air, and the comical reliefs they had following the frantic sequences between them all could not dissuade it. Yet this did not feel like a bad thing somehow. Lene tilted her head, smiling at Ares. Unexpectedly, her gesture made him act sheepish and he had to turn away to hide his flaming cheeks.

_Wait a second. Was he—_

"Unbelievable heat wave. I even had virgin lemon squash at the bar," Ares muttered... weakly.

 _... He blushed. Oh my fuck—no, dear gods, he... blushed??_ "So, uh... did you come to the bar for the dance?" she tried to ignore it, but...  _ignore it? That was even rarer than his laughter. And gosh isn't he so cute blushing and getting awkward like that? Haha, deadliest swordsman my arse; those sweet lips moving like they tried to be his advocate or something—wait, sweet lips?_

"Yes."

"Then you must be disappointed because the dancer was not there," she responded, suddenly feeling so shy and again—awkward—for saying that. She was not the only dancer who performed regularly in that bar even if her name soared higher. There were folk musicians, and sometimes that graceful odd bard with his lyra who emptied his audience's aqueduct with his sad canto would be there occasionally. The odd bard who did that and turned the audience into feeling courageous at the same time because of his other scores telling about a hero who inherited light and would vanquish darkness.

"No, I was not," he responded, taking the cup and stared at the window. Neighborhood kids playing. People passed by looking happy, colorful nice clothes... he looked like he was about to flush down his thoughts with the tea, but turned at her again instead. "... Because the dancer is here, and I got to see her. I find that to be... enough, I guess."

_Oh..._

When he said no, her heart stopped because— _because of course_   _it did not matter to him, you fool._  "Do you... like my—dancing so much, Ares?" And still, she wanted to know. She had to know. Was he only being nice because of her sob story, or was he biding his time because he also wanted what other men wanted, and knowing her character, he was trying to get her to... give in?

"I do not know," he pondered, "I never really thought of it. When I was young my parents did have entertainers on scheduled basis sometimes. But now..."

_So he just—wants the same thing as other men do, right? He cannot even explain why he is so nice to me. I know it—nothing is free in this world, and such appreciation is never for me in the first place. But this is Ares. And I almost believed that he is... different. That I am—_

Lene swallowed hard, taking a sip. She reflexively pulled her blanket up as if trying to protect herself from a truth bomb she pictured he would be dropping soon. That he actually cared less about the dance. Besides, why did she even hope he would care? He was a mercenary. His life was supposed to be rough, bloody, brutal, with dead bodies here and there. He probably thought dances were uninteresting in the first place. He had a disdain towards tilted rich heads who sent people to die at ease, so she thought it had to be the case with her since she was not a warrior. He never expressed what he wanted to her, but it should be clear that she could not be bought with anything. So why would he keep interacting with her? Why—

His hand was on top of hers, gently pulling down the blanket where it was. Without saying anything he examined her pinky-toe, which was now wrapped with his handkerchief as remnants of fresh blood due to glass shards could be seen staining the fabric. His eyes were rather fierce at this point, trailing her toes and up to her knees—yet she did not detect anger or disappointment from those light golden-colored beauties. 

 And she could not breathe. When he had that sharp gaze fixed on her, the air around her became a vacuum—yet she strangely felt comforted. Those eyes were not hostile, yet they nailed her where she was. First she knew it was hard to escape that gaze. Second, she then was not sure if she wanted to. Something in those eyes, that beautiful face, those lustrous locks—

"Lene," his voice was... she could not describe it. Deep, but rather solemn.

"Yes," her voice was even softer she was not sure if it was even out at all.

You truly are a hard-worker."

"... Pardon... me?"

"This is rigorous. Not everyone could do this, you know that?"

She shook her head.

"Then I'd like to be the first to tell you that."

_Eh—_

His hands moved again, pulling the blanket up as she wished. There was a faint soft smile reigning on his lips, and she was... overwhelmed. She flushed her emotion down with the remaining tea in her cup, yet a soft choking sound was out before she could confine it in her throat.

_... Why are you so nice to me like this..._

"Did I say something that offended you?"

_... How... dare you to even think you hurt me—_

"... Why me?" she almost fell sobbing at this point. "Is it because of my sad life story? Yours is sad too. I know many women whose life are no better than me. What is it about the dance, Ares—or..."

"Or?"

"Or misery... loves company," she wiped her eyes. Someone did show up to show he cared. Yet even so, she was not happy. And she was feeling bad about it—as if she had become too greedy ("have I?"—she pondered;) and forced him to desire her presence as much as how she secretly resented his absence. And that he was drawn to her because she was actually a sad, sad girl who braved life with everything she had—

"Is that what you are thinking?"

His head bowed, expression hidden–and Lene contemplated it would be better if the floor swallowed her at this point. "Well..."

"I'll tell you then."

"... Alright."  _Brace yourself, you stupid bitch. You ruined it. Your friendship with him ends here, right? ..._

"I like your dances," he blurted, firmly. Unyielding, unhesitant. "I like that you are the one who dances them. I respect your profession because it's blasting hard, I admire your dedication to appreciate your audiences. But."

_'But'. Here we go. Here we go._

"... But specifically—"

_Just get that demon sword and kill me, Ares._

"—because it is not like every day you find dances that keep your will to live intact and make you realize you are still a human being. Your dances energize me and I find myself waiting for... sunrise," he muttered. "Before I knew it I slowly realized that I'm just—and still—a human like everyone else. I thought I would never."

_... Eh?_

"With a rather remarkable dancer, of course I noticed when she was absent," his expression turned sheepish again. "And I don't think 'anyone else' would ever slap me with my own cravat. I also noticed you liked ribbons the most so far."

"Huh?"

"And you usually tilts your head like this when you are delighted. And your ponytail swings like this when—" Ares stopped mid-sentence, feeling too exposed and vulnerable at the same time. "You are now... laughing? Why? You were about to cry just now."

"I wasn't."

"Look at me again and repeat that."

"I wasn't—"

"But your cheeks are—ouch—why did you hit my nose?"

"Why did not you dodge?"

"... why would I dodge? It's just you hitting me."

"Oooh is that so, huh. I KNOW I am no match for you!"

"... Why would I want to win against you, anyway?"

"... You never?"

"This way? No, why would I gloat at the idea of hitting you?"

"Why would—aah, forget it! Ares, alright, you are right, you win!"

"... That one was a match?" He stared in confusion as she shifted her feigned annoyance into laughter. How weird, he pondered, looking at his own open palms with great curiosity. He was in a sour mood today, and then he saw her—well, stupidly assumed the worst and almost destroyed her closet. With it, he made a mental note for the blacksmith he promised her. She looked like she needed more time to get better, but strangely she was now all smiles and laughter without signs of pain unlike the first time he barged in. When the herbs lady caught his eyes, the elderly woman only smiled and raised a thumb.

 _Oh—that. ... Right?_  Ares slipped his hand underneath his cape. "I think I should add some more for your tea too, Madam," he turned back at the herbs lady.

"No, I cannot let you pay for everything—"

The older woman simply laughed. "She is right though. No, no. Keep it, Sir Ares. Gosh, that is not what I meant! Let me know if our dear Lene here still needs some herbs when these ones run out." 

Both Ares and Lene stopped. Sir Ares? Dear Lene...? How nice that sounded. And very humane...

But the herbs lady just laughed endearingly as she gave some light massage on Lene's thighs. "I can do this with you until you are feeling better, dear. I'll fetch a carriage and massage you. After all a dancer like you also need to return to the stage soon, right?"

"I can have dinner ready for you too, Grannie!" Lene replied, beamed with joy. "Legs massage! That will be wonderful and I will be paying your sandwiches back!"

"It will be a nice idea to have a companion while you cannot move like that," Ares quickly agreed. "If I do not have a mission, I'll drop you at her house, Ma'am. If I have, I'll reserve a carriage for you first."

"Ahaha, you are so kind indeed," the herbs lady chuckled. "Just like what she told me." She even winked. "But perhaps it is better if you are the one dropping by, Sir Ares. What can an old woman like me do if..." she chuckled again, "... there is a home invasion?" her laughter became louder and merrier when Ares' face turned red.

Neither Ares nor Lene could say much to each other after he and the herbs lady said goodbye to Lene. Of course having the herbs lady around felt like being chaperoned, but perhaps... "Better this way," Ares smirked, making a mental note that he was so close to lay her down on her bed and claimed her lips. Accidental, yes, but still—

That thought did not bother him as much as that actually... comforted him somehow. She was there, safe and sound and would get better in no time, thanks to the blacksmith he fetched and did a godlike-speed job with the help of his death stares... well, a bit. How different a  _without_  and a  _there_  made...

Meanwhile Lene felt something under her bed. The legs felt better thanks to the massage, so she carefully took that thing— _no monster, right? Just a legend, right? Darn, forgot to refill the oil._ The 'thing' turned out to be a simple white box. A card was in there, and she never got that handwritten note before. The writing was surprisingly neat if not...  _courtly,_ she thought again, marveling the neat cursive with distinctive curves in the capitalized letters.

"Day of shopping spree they said. I am free today, and you are sick. Anyway, may you be healed soon," she read the message. Only that, and a signature which read  _Ares._ And a capitalized letter N... huh? She would ask about those to him later because it was as if those two were made without him realizing it. Vague strikes, ink blob. N? He had a family house? And...

And there was a pair of beautiful aqua blue ribbons that reminded her of a calm early morning in that box.


	11. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since forever, he is angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original source for this 100-theme challenge placed similar themes namely 'Anger', 'Fury', and 'Rage' close to each other (there are only about 2-3 chapters in between of each), so I decided to juggle the order a bit to prevent them from overlapping. Last time I checked by intensity 'rage' seems to be the strongest, and 'fury' ranks above anger. So I will interpret them this way (please note that English is not at all my first language, so if this is not the case, don't hesitate to inform me!)
> 
> That said this chapter may contain sensitive material with the non-consensual contacts and depiction of violence. So if that bothers you, feel free to proceed with caution or even skip. I have put the necessary warning banner up front, but you know, just in case.
> 
> (Also, I modeled Lene's gown after a classic dirndl because because OTL. And there goes my attempt to use actual fencing terms again... this chapter is also longer than usual. So... [ Alfonse's tone ] my apologies.)
> 
> P/S I also did not notice all the typos I made in the previous chapters! So, double apology for my carelessness and the cactus keyboard. I'll probably fix them all once I have a #real Ao3 time for that.

"Potatoes, carrots, turnips,” he recited, dumping three bags on the floor. “And here are the rose oil, worts, ginger roots, mint leaves—ah yes, turmeric. I already brought in the veal.”

She watched him putting all those things on her pantry countertop, minus the vegetable bags he already put down when he came. It was near midday, and she was halfway finishing cutting bread loaves in the pantry when her ears caught the vague sounds of knocking. That day was the third day after she gave in to the self-imposed bed rest because of how badly her legs needed the rest. August marked the last month of summer, marked with cheery afternoons, merry nights with many parties thrown, and people holding celebrations. The money season was great, but she was definitely exhausted.

He had been busy running errands around the town while she lay down to recover her muscles. He had informed her that his mercenary group’s chief, Javarro, would probably reach Darna within this week from Melgen, and for the time being the rest of the men the Chief had left in Darna fell under his leadership. Through his speeches and demeanor, she could already tell that he did not fancy the baton being passed down to him.

“You look tired,” she eventually spoke after he returned inside with the turmeric pouch.

The first day he arrived to deliver her goods she noticed there was a stain of dirt on his cravat. Brawling, he said, in a bored tone akin to an annoyed person who got tangled into a mess they did not want. He talked about guarding stores specializing in selling luxurious goods, and without Javarro’s strong presence and commanding instructions, the disgruntled mercenaries thought he was there to overlord the rest, and would not believe when he handed them their wages. The second day he was there, he sheepishly asked if she had a spare towel because the men,  _in the most chivalrous, benevolent way possible_ —he vented to her in the most  _gruesome_ sarcastic tone she ever witnessed—decided to get back at him for stopping the fights the day prior, by… snatching towel, not giving a spare one when he asked, and apparently, “Used my loincloths to clean the floor,” as he bluntly phrased to her.

The mental image of a furious, vengeful _naked_  Ares demanding blood retribution for what the rest mercenaries did to his clothing articles did not seem to be what she was  _supposed_ to be having at such hour, but seeing how sullen he looked and how his face turned dark red as if he nearly died of seafood allergy successfully released her sympathetic giggles from their cages.

Still, she could not just shake off the supposed visage of Ares—with flame-throwing eyes which engulfed the rest of his mercenary comrades, running around shirtless with damp hair as he demanded them returning his fabrics. And probably that meant there would be some water splashed over his well-toned body as well— _and just what am I thinking?_ She thought then as Ares proceeded ranting.

“I’m fine,” he replied dismissively. The Black Knight still dressed neatly always did—cravat, blouse covered with a black cape adorned with gold motifs. Only that this time he deliberately took off the cape, revealing a black top which sleeves he rolled up to ease him working back and forth to unload everything he mentioned to her. “Rather than that, how are your legs?”

“Much better! Only the left one needs a bit more time,” she smiled cheerfully at him, slowly dragging her bedridden body to the side of the bed. “Look,” without losing the trademark peppiness he was by then very much accustomed to, she reached for her bed post. Her triumphant smile blossomed under his watchful eyes as they anxiously followed her every moment. Reiterating a point, she lifted one leg, arching it into a perfect 180 degree angle. “The audience could be a bit tricked if they did not realize it’s only the right leg that spins.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “No.”

“I will have to get back on stage soon.”

“Soon does not mean now,” he countered.

“Huuumph!” she made a disapproval sound, her expression turning sour. “I’m merely showing you that I can walk now. The herbs grannie did nothing but a good job mending my legs.”

It was a reference to the old woman who sold herbs and medicine seller he dragged along to her apartment before. The kind old lady lived not far from the market, and she would pass her stall each time she went to the bar to perform. Sometimes they would be sharing lunches, and through the old woman’s gestures toward her, she found a little bit of comfort as well as compassion in this unforgiving world, let alone the hot desert area of Darna and the pretty merciless living condition they were in.

Although Lene made a good name as a dancer, she had always been frugal and meticulously keeping tabs on her expenses. She made it clear that she would not be taking gratifications or engaging in personal liaison with her clients. As far as the matter of dancing was concerned, it did not always mean rigorous training and exhausted legs—often times it also dealt with choosing the suitable props, including clothing and beauty products. For Lene, to wholly deliver art meant she had to transform into it. Therefore the moment she ascended the stage, she wanted her audience to see all of her as a personification of art itself—rich, expressive, and most importantly able to lull the crowd to forget their miseries while feeling some depth whilst they were watching.

“I can see that perfectly,” her counterpart responded again with a dry tone. “But if you keep it that way, the poor old woman will need more than just a good job to help you again.”

“But this is an essential pose to check on flexibility. Inspired from classical ballet dances which I improved… oh wait, Ares, you are art-blind,” she stuck her tongue at him, throwing a pillow in the process. The Black Knight had been helping her with chores and bringing her necessities these past three days. In the early morning whe he did his shopping routine, he would make sure to drop by her place to ask what she would need from the market for the day. At first it felt so awkward for her to hand him a small note containing her list of groceries, but by day two her awkwardness had turned into an unexplainable shyness as she eagerly waited for his visit at half past five in the early morning.

“Am I?” Ares, the Black Knight, countered again, catching her pillow with his  _left_ hand at ease, as if he did not even need to look to neutralize her surprise attack. And that did not escape her eyes either—on the contrary, feeling of amusement swelled in her chest, and she let out a sweet giggle. “… Is something wrong?” the Black Knight caught her soft ripples of laughter, waiting with anticipation as he put her pillow back on to the bed. Even in her vulnerable state, she  _still_ managed to catch him off guard… well now that he thought about it, she always, always surprised him every day with acts he typically would not be able to predict.

“No,” she shook her head back. No way she’d tell him she just got him into a pillow fight. “Throw that back at me, will you?” she grabbed the same pillow and threw it at him again.

He  _grinned_ when he sensed how the speed and power increased with that one. “Must I?” he commented, after catching it. The pillow was now securely held in his left hand again. Sometimes he saw himself in her antics—the urge to best other people, the resolve to perform a skill whole-heartedly, and… oh of course, not wanting to give up. How could  _he_ forget?

“Art-blind,” she repeated. Rather childish for them at this point, but like hell she cared.

“And this is art?”

“Nooo, but it is aggravating when you parried at ease like that!” she folded her arms. “And what kind of a person who engaged a pillow fight by gently resting the missile at his opponent’s feet? Gosh, I’m confined to this bed. Never took so much sleep like this since a long time ago.”

“Sounds like you  _do_  need it then,” Ares calmly responded. A quick glance at her and he was aware he only added fuel to fire because her eyes sparked a dangerous  _just so you wait_.

“Sounds like you need to get hit with a pillow,” she searched around. “Here it goes. _En garde!”_

Ares swung his left hand, which was still holding the first pillow he caught. As the pillows collided with each other, the second one she threw at him lost its force and helplessly fell down into the grasp of his right hand, which he smoothly caught.  _“Attaque au fer,”_  the urge to grin returned as he spoke of the term—hitting the opponent’s blade with the fencer’s own blade, a move aimed to make the opponent’s blade power backfire and paralyze itself. Speaking of the devil of feeling challenged, alright… “Lene, I’m not saying these things to chaperon you. I know you need more rest… and I know art!” he stated the last part, sparing her a fake death stare which Darnaians had known… probably a bit more than too well.

“Do you?” she purposefully made a condescending gesture.

“Yes. The art of war.” Ares deadpanned. “That was an unsteady pivot, Miss.”

“See—ow,” Lene yanked the Black Knight’s mullet when he dropped the pillows on her lap.

“See,” Ares returned the line with a satisfied smirk although his hair fell victim to her attack.

“What was that one for?” Lene grumbled, but she still returned the pillows to their initial positions, her feet awkwardly trod on the wooden floor.

“If you are  _that_ okay,” he leaned forward, arching his back to match her height. His eyes pierced hers just to signal he seriously meant what he was about to say. “… Then you would not yelp.”

“Well, excuse you, I had things to do too, so I cannot just lie in bed doing nothing for the whole day,” she scoffed, trying to avert her eyes when he did that. … Boy she hated it when he did that. She hated when his eyes swallowed hers, causing her to be breathless as she delved in them. How could a man possess such beautiful eyes like those? How could he make her speechless and feel so unexplainably shy just by intensely looking at her? How could he snatch her laughter easily just by being so sincere, how could he make her feel so safe and cared for? … Or rather, she hated it so much that she could not hate him for all these qualities.

“Such as?” Ares asked again, his eyes did not leave hers—or her legs when she bent them.

“Your lunch!” she murmured. For some reason and another she would rather hide herself under the blanket than letting him see how shy being this close to him made her.

“… My… lunch,” the Black Knight repeated, as if he tried convincing himself that it happened. His words came off doubtful—not of her, but himself. “Did I hear that right?”

“Yes,” she acted like she was searching for an non-existent embroidery that was supposedly scattered over the bed… under the blanket. “There, at the pantry. I cooled it down right before you came. I was just about to make some sandwiches too.”

“… I see,” he kicked his heels awkwardly to the pantry. When she thought she was about to die of voluntary suffocation, his towering figure came back with two plates. “These right here? The braised beef, grilled vegetables and mashed potatoes?”

“Mm-hmm…” she nodded. Just then she noticed the second plate did not contain either mashed potatoes or braised beef—rather, he got a serving for her, and somehow her cheeks felt like burning when he absent-mindedly set the plate at her side, on the drawer.

She peeked at him when he engulfed his first bite, and quickly continued talking before he noticed being watched or returned the staring contest. “When I made you soup, you ate half of the entire pot,” she could not help but chuckling at the memory. Ares had come late to the bar, but after the first bowl he asked when he barely seated himself on a modest wooden bench near the backstage, he kept motioning his bowl to her as if he evaded talking.

“My apologies,” the feared Black Knight responded as shades of crimson began to audaciously color his face. “The night was—cold.”  _And deadly. And your food was comforting._

“No, no, don’t! If you apologize, sounds like you won’t take my food again in the future,” her chuckles broke into a sincere laughter, and he spared a faint smile in discreet. Right when he pondered how she seemed to always know how to effortlessly surprise him... and there she was, doing it again. “I was merely thinking if I did something similar, then you’d get bored.”

“This is real food,” Ares replied diplomatically. “So chances are, I will not.”

The  _real food_ phrase did not escape her at all just like the other day. “So…” she sighed, handing her empty plate to the Black Knight, “your chief is supposed to be back soon?”

“Probably the next morning, even,” he nodded. “And I’ll be done playing commander here.”

 _Then that means he will probably stop visiting,_ she thought again, wondering why the thought alone made her feel melancholic. These past three days had been so peaceful—one-sided from her perhaps, but she did notice the serene-than-usual air seemed to affect him too.

Ares appeared more relaxed and even chattier than usual. She had witnessed him chuckling a couple of times during the visits when he delivered her provisions, a contrast to her first impression of his mesmerizing presence—when she figured  _that_ was the fearsome Black Knight. He would stand still, all silent yet observant with the deathly glare of doom who pierced through even the most loudmouthed person’s soul and earned their instant silence. The Ares with tall and lean posture—and shaped muscles with a sturdy-looking back, as she would sheepishly confess—whose steps were tranquil yet wide. The Ares with rumored demon sword Mystletainn who spoke with courtly demeanor as if some certain part of him yearned to break free from its confinement, which was alone rather unlikely to the uncouth typical mercenary speech style she used to know. And yet being her constant visitor for these past three days gave her a rare sighting of him.

 _He is beautiful to the bones,_ her dancer friends used to say. Some girls at the large decorated manor of the Path of Flowers sometimes chattered about him.  _Those luminous sun-colored hair strands,_ they said.  _The formidable piercing gaze,_ they mused.  _And the way he carried his walk, because that time when he stripped down to his breeches to bathe his horse… and how those breeches gave us a glimpse of the shape of his thighs—_ they would keep going until they all broke into giggles, and she had to excuse herself because the very last part started making her feel so shy as well.

But the Ares she had come to know was also innocently sincere, which reminded him of a child at times. And then those eyes turned into their usual taciturn state, scaring away whoever he hated being in his periphery. Just like a lion that was alert of his proximity, selective of who could get in. A lion that scanned others as either preyed or spared.

Then she wondered what happened to that child, and what hell managed to turn such purity into an intense ferocity ....

“Are there more dirty dishes right now?” Ares tilted his head at her.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not notice he had moved back to the side near her bath. Perfumed water and splashes of soap filled a wooden container where he had been soaking their plates took off his gloves to wash them all. Just like that, sans reservation, unhesitant. Yet they said this was a notorious mercenary whose blade had sliced through many jugular veins to drink blood.

Her eyes traveled to the little pocket on his shirt, where he tucked his black gloves. She sighed softly, slightly aggravated because sometimes Ares appeared to be full of constant dualities like this. A mercenary, with courtly demeanor. A gentle beast. Fearsome warrior, with a secret compassionate heart.

Yet the more she was exposed to these dualities, the more fitting those incompatible qualities seemed to be on him. And the more she contemplated into it, the more convinced she was that perhaps there was no need to dissect him as these were all what made him Ares. The only difference there was that some people insisted only to see the other, and perhaps already assigned that side on him that he forgot there was more to him than what they said he was.

“No, that will be all,” she smiled again. “You do not have to do this, you know…”

… And as much r thoughts surprised herself, she was even more curious to know what it would be like when he was  _angry._ Ferocious, bloodthirsty, people told her—but they should also have known that he did what he did to survive. She said it herself, it was a job.

So far Ares had been nothing but kind to her, and at the same time it was almost like he had nothing to ask for himself. At times Ares would sound like his words came from the underworld as he whispered revenge, as he recounted the tale of a murdered father and a shattered family to her. How, he said, in his worst nightmare, he held the leader of Liberation Army’s head in one hand with Mystletainn on the other, yet rather than satisfaction because it was supposed to be the justice he needed, all he felt was immense pain. When she turned silent for not knowing how to respond to that without prying into his past, he profusely apologized for exposing her to the gruesome details.

“You did not have to cook for me, and yet here we are,” Ares responded indifferently from the corner. “Lene?”

“Ah—yes?”

“You are spacing out.”

She was.

“It just does not feel fair to let you do all these things for me,” she confessed. “And even if you insist, I don’t like this feeling. Like I’ve taken so much from you in exchange of nothing.”

“But I just got some lunch, didn’t I?” he responded simply, rinsing the plates.

She should have expected that he clearly had his way too when it came to countering her. “It must be hard without the Chief to keep everyone grounded,” she dragged her body again to check on her closet. “And I imagine with these extras, you must be tired, that’s all.”

“I don’t tire easily.”

 _He probably does not,_ she thought again. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

He let the pillow she threw hit his head this time.

“No fun,” she pouted when he returned the pillow again. She could hear his faint chuckles when he set the pillow again on her bed. Well, considering that was the third time today he was probably much more patient than she credited him for. “Come on, get angry.”

“Oh but I did. The plates were bothering your bed, so I…  _cleaned_ them.”

“Now you are cracking a joke,” Lene feigned chiding, pursing her lips into a smile. She began to wonder if Javarro was ever so kind to him, considering how humane and free this Ares was. And she could have sworn he appeared to enjoy the idle time too because the way he spoke about the Chief’s return came off ambivalent albeit there was some relief in it.

Lene checked on her closet. Colorful fabrics draped neatly from their hangers, and some more folded materials could be seen at the base of the closet. Suddenly she swiftly moved to check on the drawers where she kept her accessories. Flashes of warmth traveled through her face when she noticed the little box containing ribbons he had left under the bed, and she found her notebook reigning on top of the box. She ought to toss it clumsily the moment Ares and the herbs grannie visited her. Taking her notebook, she unconsciously brought the ribbon box with her. Tracing her own handwriting, she recognized some checklists and a page with numbers scribbled on it. Her notes of earnings and expenses, just right before her legs gave up.

That did not escape his eyes. Neither did when she griped the side of her bed to steady her footing, which he decided not to interfere. He secretly praised how alert she was of her surroundings when she confidently did all these activities—now harder than usual with the bad leg—when she concentrated on her note to inspect her closet, when she noticed something was amiss because of her deep frown and the way she slipped her pencil behind her ear. “I knew it!”

“What of?”

“These bills must be paid,” she traced her notes with her eyes once again before swiftly adding, “and please don’t, Ares. Besides, they are… private expenses.”

“I see,” he murmured. “So like… private needs. A woman’s necessities.”

“That, and other things,” Lene gave a slight nod. Did Ares just—blush because of that? As if he accidentally peeked into a lady’s room uninvited. And yet this was the subject of those verses of longing, picturing him as this insatiable conqueror who consumed blood and flesh—at two different fields. “I need to visit these shops to pay what I owe them. Typically, I take care of these bills at the end of each month, and I do tend to shop more than usual around summer to prepare for the festivities and performance rushes. Since many people also get paid by the end of the month, we just compare our schedules to make things easier,” she mumbled, scribbling another note. Names of shops, goods—he did not know if he could do what she did; multitasking like that and recalling what taken from where for how much—with the supposed prices. She opened a secret compartment in her drawers, taking out a larger box where she kept her savings and began to separate coins and banknotes to be placed in her go-to purse. Lene bit her lips, feeling sour. Had Ares not help with the herbs, that box would lose much of its content. And she hated her vulnerability even more—days she could not work mean days she missed her stage money. Then again poorer people could never afford to be sick...

“When are you visiting these shops?” Ares asked, rolling his sleeves down now that the chores were done.

“Should be now,” Lene bit her lips again, even harder. “I hate to return on stage with unfinished business. Besides, everyone might think I’m faking it to escape responsibilities.”

“Who is this everyone? The barkeep knows you are recuperating,” the Black Knight recalled his virgin lemon squash and his…  _nice_ chit-chat with the old man. A rare mischievous grin appeared on his face as he continued speaking. “I can endure a couple more of nicechit-chats.”

“Being in this profession has its own challenges, you know?” she huffed. “I’m afraid the shop owners can charge me for late payment since autumn is at the door. Usually people begin to save tightly for the winter, so the season really is the last chance to fatten your purse before hibernating for the winter. Thus, traders will be fiercer on getting their payment.”

“… And they will hunt you down to your bed if necessary,” there was an unmasked bitterness in the Black Knight’s voice as his memory made the worst enemy out of him again.

The loud knocking on the door in the early morning—or a few more when the night had fallen. How his mother patiently explained to the man with trimmed mustache who had invaded their bed time that she promised to settle the rent fee before the month ended because she could only manage to give out half of them when the agreed time came. How his mother pleaded to landlords not to take certain trinkets and decorations away in exchange of the rent because those were a memento from his father, and more importantly, heirlooms passed down to generations to define House Nordion. How he secretly delivered papers and letters to fill in his mother’s purse, and only had to stop when a soldier of the Empire killed the postmaster of an office he picked his deliveries from. How for the first time ever his mother’s hand, now much rougher than it was due to all the hard labors she performed, landed on his face when he got home after hiding in the bushes because only by the grace of Hezul he did not wet his pants when witnessing the murder. His mother did not use any force at all when she slapped him, as if all she wanted to convey was pure sadness. When he traced where her hand stroke him, Grahnye spared no time enveloping little Ares into a tight, tight secure hug, making him to promise her not to put himself in dangerous predicament.

"Ever again?" Grahnye breathed, her tears fell one by one, wetting the collar of his blouse.

"Ever again, Mama," little Ares had replied then. Present-day Ares could only snicker remembering that—his mother would be so proud to know what he did for a living...  _not._

The other occasion, there was a forceful slap—the kind of strike that made his ears rang, which definitely was not his mother’s. It was of another, whom he had threatened to  _kill_  for pestering his mother with rent—and undoing her dress by the time he got into his mother’s room to pick up a tie she was mending for a neighbor to earn them some money. And then another slap landed across his temples when he barked an empty threat upon hearing his mother’s heartbreaking sobs as she struggled to patch her dignity back.

“Precisely,” Lene responded, huffing again. “And you can’t even get angry.”

He agreed silently, recalling the third slap he received for wrestling the lecherous swine off Grahnye, and how his late mother—with half exposed breasts, pleading the man to leave and stop hurting him. First time he had threatened to raise his father’s sword over another person’s head, and despite the situation he was made to feel like he had no right to anger. “We still owe him the rent,” his mother weakly murmured as he helped fixing her dress, in the midst of shouting shoulders outside the house and people’s screams of pain.

With eyes burning with rage and suppressed tears, Mystletainn became a silent witness as little Ares longed for the Lionheart of Nordion’s presence, knowing full well that armed or not, under no circumstance his father would let a man like that lay a hand on his mother or him. Even with such young age he began to understand that anger was a futile luxury to afford when your soul was chained.

And often times, people with chained purse could not afford some freedom for their soul...

“Ares, are you alright…?” Lene, with one hand leaned against the wall, had slowly turned her steps to where he stood. Without any hesitation she raised an arm to feel his temperature, and just then he ferociously opened his eyes as if he got ripped from a deep slumber with a nightmare. “Oh, sorry! Suddenly you looked so… disturbed as if you were about to faint.”

“… Just… the heat,” he mumbled. “If that is the case then I can take you on a ride with me.”

“A ride?” she frowned. “And some minutes ago you fussed over me for walking!”

“You need to visit those shops, right?” he waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll get the horse now.”

 _Oh,_ she noted, voluntarily smacking her head as his figure proceeded to leave. For some reason she had thought he meant a casual riding. Still, she noticed something changed. She thought she saw fire violently burning inside the Black Knight’s eyes when he talked of the debt collectors, yet the hellfire was quenched the moment he switched to offer her a ride, making those eyes appear like a completely different person’s.

* * *

 

By the time Lene and Ares was out in town, the sun had tilted. Ares’ pocket watch told her it was about two in the afternoon, and she was thankful because being mounted took her to the town faster than usual. The weather had been less scorching since they arrived past noon, and sun rays were not as intense as they would have been at twelve. Eyeing Ares who held the rein before her without saying anything, she was glad to stall him a bit by offering lunch. At least riding—let alone for Ares who donned black—would not be so challenging.

She scanned her surroundings, altering back and forth with checking on her notes. Since Ares had gotten most of what she needed from the market, what was left now would be clothing shops. Her lashes dropped, blushing when someone waved at her—the formidable herbs grannie, who spared her a secret thumbs-up as the horse passed the stall. And boy did she want to nudge Ares to just keep riding instead of stopping a bit to courteously nod at her ....

“Ah, here we are!” she lightly touched his shoulders as the horse entered a certain alley.

Ares simply nodded. “Wait for me. I will get you off there.”

She smoothed her dress when he descended the horse. Dressed in a simple white gown with soft baby blue laces decorating the collar area, she had put a pink outer layer over the gown, and there was a ribbon-belt fastened to the back of her waist. The white gown was shorter than the outer layer, which draped neatly to below her knees. She paired her clothing with nude leather ankle boots which she typically wore in daily basis. As her fingers felt the fabric under her, a bitter smile emerged. It would be nice to just wear the white gown without an outer layer because the weather was hot, but to think that she had to mend it and unsure if the bright afternoon would reveal the stitch marks, better safe than sorry. Now with the bills needing payment she wondered if there would be anything left to buy more dresses. Since she used most of her clothing allowance for dancing costumes and accessories, she had been fixing her daily clothes or altered them to save money.

“Here we are. … I guess,” Ares commented.

“Thank you,” she murmured, noticing the feel of his strength as a pair of hands respectfully circled her waist to help her dismounting. “You’ve never been here before?”

“No,” Ares answered simply, holding out his hand to her. “Because there is no reason to.”

“Should have guessed,” she sighed, taking his hand to steady her footing. He released her when she tried to walk on her own. Her steps were still slower than usual but her spirit soared because she could. “Did you see that?”

“Yes.”

“Admit defeat then!” she smiled enthusiastically.

“Alright,” he nodded again, purposefully sounding so submissive as he patted his mount on the butt. The horse neighed as if it also laughed. “So, where are we then?”

“The boutique alley! I will be visiting shops over there,” her arm stretched to three different locations, pointing at some considerable distance from where they stood. “I bought fabric bolts because it felt cheaper making my own clothes than buying those beautiful ready-to-wears. Took a while to finish, but those boutiques do not charge you lightly.”

“I see.”

“… Well, the irony here is that I don’t have much time to sew considering my tight dancing schedules… which I picked up exactly to earn more money to make clothes,” she followed-up, feeling sheepish and foolish at the same time. “Do you sew?”

“I stitch,” he corrected. “… I need to know how to treat wounds.”

“… Oh,” she murmured again, feeling even more foolish for asking. Glancing at his black boots which carried his steps to tail her, she understood that he had been walking slower to match her paces. The atmosphere felt tight again because Ares did not say anything. “Hey.”

“Yes—what?” he blinked. Her index finger precisely poked his nose right when he turned at her, and he found himself speechless while feasted on yet another of his defeat.

Lene giggled. Between altering victorious smiles and delightful chuckles, she finally managed to comment. “Got you. You looked brooding.”

“Ah. I will keep it in mind to be more aware of unanticipated attacks,” he lightly responded. He was glad to see her laughing after his response regarding stitching wounds, but the lights in her eyes cowered when he said that. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d rather you get angry,” she admitted. “You know, for poking you and all that.”

“You said I was stubborn,” he simply replied. “And anger has always been a luxury for me—“ his mind flashed certain fragments again. The days he felt so helpless and upset to see his mother being abused, the day he was told about his father’s demise and the name which supposed to cause it. “Besides, what is it with you and wanting to see me getting angry?”

“Because you’ve been too patient!” she argued for the sake of arguing. Well, it did not actually mean she wanted him to lash on her, alright—it was just rather aggravating, albeit funny, to see the mighty Ares easily concede to her. “It’s as if you did these all just to appease me.”

“Definitely not. Besides, why would I begrudge a rabbit?”

“A… rabbit?” that truly took her off guard… but he stood tall there with a straight face. “Fine, you asked for it. I’ll get you later! I’m going to get creative when this damn leg heals.”

“By all means, try. Practice makes perfect,” he replied dryly on purpose because he just resisted the urge to grin. For the third time today in a short time—if this kept going on, he wondered until when he could keep everything before she completely obliterated him. “You loyally stay around but keep poking me every now and then, is that not a rabbit? Oh, and ponytails.”

“Stone-cold killer!” she chided, placing her hands on her hips. “And if you actually begrudge my ponytail, I can make the hair for you.” Just then she could hear his gentle chuckles seamlessly returned as he bent a bit to fix his cape.

 _I probably should stop doing this every so often,_  she pondered, stopped stealing a glance at him. Regardless seeing him like that made her smile as well.  _He laughed a lot today,_ she thought again, feeling so peaceful and delighted at the same time. Perhaps better this way than getting curious of his  _actual_ angry face then.

But the chit-chat took them to the first shop she needed in no time. She gave a gentle knock on a wooden door which marked the entrance to an aisle shop in the alley. The shop was open and the stretched doors allowed air and breeze to freely travel into the shop, which made a nicer change considering the hot climate. “Hello there, busy people! It’s Lene!” her neck arched a bit to peek inside. “And I have come to settle the scores!” she gave a playful evil laughter whilst dramatically showing off her purse.

He watched in amusement—if not awe when the people inside the shop stopped doing whatever they were the moment they heard her announcing her arrival. Friendly greetings flowed irresistibly like a river course, followed by amicable gestures. She was always suave with people, something he knew too well himself lacking. Still, it warmed his heart to see her happy smiles as well as people’s friendly laughter and greetings when they took turn chattering with her.  _I heard you were sick?_ —one asked.  _No no, even worse I heard she got into an accident!_ —the shop owner, a woman in her late thirties, commented while daughter fetched a paper.  _Mama, people said her legs hurt,_ the little girl had said.

He recalled the unsavory talks regarding her the bar-goers tended to have—the very venue she was supposed to feel like home. Yet at this shop they got along, and he made a mental note perhaps he should start frequenting this area too since the people seemed to be so nice. When the shop owner caught his silhouette standing outside the shop, he gave a courteous bow.

“Say, Lene, the man outside…” the shop owner whispered, prompting him to wait anxiously. He knew of such conversation starter way, way too well—people would whisper, confirmed their suspicion to her about him being the notoriously fearsome mercenary with the alias of Black Knight. And now he felt guilty. He probably should just leave her be and patiently waited at the entrance of the alley so she could get the blissful socializing time she needed after the bed rest. A happy world without his dark presence; a bright world full of smiles befitting someone like Lene…

“Oh, it is Ares!” Thus ended his waiting, but he jolted when she mentioned his name so smoothly like that. Was he not being a disturbance by simply being there? Was she not aware of his image and how some—alright, many—people were  _frightened_  of him?

“Then I—“ he opened his mouth to bide a temporary adieu to her, feeling so self-conscious of a sudden.

However Lene grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “Watch your head, the door is rather low. Ah yes, it’s Ares! And he is really kind. Too kind to me that it’s so aggravating at times,” she laughed again, playfully poking his ribs. “I’m thankful that he’s been helping me.”

 _That blond boy—look at him, heir to the Nordion throne and a legendary blade dubbed as the demon sword. And he will grow strong in no time,_ so did Javarro introduce him to the others when he first joined the mercenaries.

He nearly forgot how he hated feeling paraded like that, but since it was Lene and not the Chief, all his guarding shields felt like they were rendered useless like forever ago. “If you need me, I will be… outside, I suppose,” his response was awkward.

“Eeeh, why?” Lene arched her body forward, her hands clasping behind her. “… Oh. Perhaps you don't like to be around feminine accessories?”

“Of course that is not the case. It’s just that I…”

_—This is Ares, heir to the demon sword **—**_

****_I_**** _t's Ares! He is so kind._

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Alright, I’ll stay.”

“Good!” she warmly patted his shoulders without losing the cheerful demeanor. He could only nod, awkwardly stood still while she walked to the counter to conclude her purchases with the shop owner—rhinestone hairpin, with pairs of silver hooplets, dangled earrings and threaders. And extra ankle bracelets she would wear to create rhythmic sounds when dancing.

He waited patiently while she chatted with the shop owner, still with all smiles and laughter. However it did not escape him when she pulled another cloth-wrapped  _something_ before putting the container on the counter. He could hear the shop keeper’s amused reaction as she called on her daughter to come. The little girl gingerly tip-toed around the counter, beaming with joy upon seeing what it was. “Sandwich, sandwich!” from where he stood, he could hear the enthusiastic chirping.

 _Oh so that’s what those bread loaves are for…_ he thought again, feeling amused and respectful of her at the same time. So Lene still had the time to think of other people even when she was unwell, including the lunch she made for him. He could picture how she impatiently raided her apartment for leftover tasks the very next day her legs could manage getting up from the bed.

“Now that takes care of it,” Lene returned to his side with a big, big satisfied grin as the shop owner gently warned her little daughter to go easy with the sandwiches.

“She’s trying to eat three pieces at a time…” the lady gave an apologetic nod at them. “This always happens whenever Lene treats my daughter to homemade cooking.”

“Same here then,” Ares could not resist the urge to smirk, effortlessly catching her playful jab before it reached his nose. And he had to let go because the shop owner’s daughter stole her from him to convey all the sandwich-related praises a nine-year-old could muster.

“Condolences, Sir Ares,” the shop owner played along, sparing a grin at Lene with such knowing and comical sympathetic look for trying to punch  _the_   _Black Knight._  Her eyes sparkled seeing the unlikely bond shared between the beloved dancer and the fearsome mercenary, gauging they had to be  _close_ to engage in such interaction. Never before the Black Knight was seen so unguarded—let alone letting anyone—well, a girl too—close enough to lay a hand on him.

“Ares, Laura’s husband runs an armory next door…” Lene returned from the counter where she had been chatting with the little girl. Her words were vibrant just as her steps were impatiently vivacious, and through one glance alone he could clearly tell how happy she was—

“Oops,” Ares muttered, catching her as she tumbled.

“Sorry about that,” she tugged on his arm as he helped her back on her feet.

“Then be patient until that leg heals, rabbit,” he commented with a straight face.

“No,” she countered, sparing him a beautiful, beautiful smile like there never was before… while her hand ominously yanked on his mullet. “I just don’t want you to feel left out! I figured if I found something you might like, doing this would not feel so bad for you.”

“I wield Mystletainn. No need for another sword," he commented. "And I didn't say I hated this.”

 _Because before leaving, his eyes were so… dark and feral like it could set the world on fire,_ she pondered.  _Or was I just imagining things?_  “See,” Lene faked a disappointed sigh. “Didn’t work.”

“Had no idea you are into sadism, ‘sis,” the shop owner simply grinned—“Oops,” she added after glancing at her little daughter. Still, she kept that expression, especially now that Lene’s face turned crimson and the Black Knight burst into a sincere  _laughter_. “Do come again, Sir Ares. You are always welcomed here.”

This time it was his turn to be speechless.

Ares glanced at Lene, who ardently took wide, courageously strode as if she purposefully messed with him.  _Perhaps she did,_ he thought again, recalling those  _I CAN WALK!_  sour stares both he and the herbs grannie respectively got as they loaded her to bed. At that time the old lady successfully kept her on the bed by asking if she'd rather have him carry her. He was curious as to why those magic words worked wonders on her, yet seeing her right now he was relieved that she did get better. Her steps were steadier, and although she was still slower than usual, she did not look like she was in immense crippling pain.

“So… first impressions?” Lene smiled as they left the shop.

“… The breeze was cool,” Ares cleared his throat, suddenly feeling melancholic because of all the sincere unreserved gestures in public he had been getting from the two women. He wondered if his answer would be disappointing because he sensed she tried to make their shopping trip nice for him as well, but for some reason he did not feel secure enough saying he actually liked it.

“I’m glad then,” her voice came out so tender, totally unexpected to him. He thought she would be disappointed because he came off rather curt, and yet… “I will just cross the street to get to that one shop over there so we can proceed to the textile wholesaler before we are done for the day. Ah, that textile shop is magical! There are so many beautiful fabrics with artful motifs and it is just soooo hard not to feel greedy while being there, you just wait!”

“… About the sandwiches,” he cleared his throat again. “You do that often?”

“… What… do you mean?”

“Feeding people,” he answered, “… like you did me.”

She folded her arms, thinking he was trying to get even with her. But just then she noticed how  _serious_  he looked, and regardless of Ares’ subtle playfulness, it would be clear when he was joking and when he was not. At least, so far she  _could_ tell. But this one was not it. “Yeah?” she finally spoke. “Is there… anything wrong with that? Don’t you think it is good to take care of each other? Besides, what did I lose by making the world a happier place for kids?”

 _… Ah._ He could not find anything to contest her. Only that there was a sudden pang of sadness when she concluded her sentence— _a happier place for kids, huh…_

Lene was back at his side again, and he praised his crusader ancestor when she did not look troubled crossing the street. “This feels so light of all the sudden,” she murmured, playing with the purse in her grip. “Actually, the lightest is about to come because my biggest bill is with that textile shop. And those are only for dancing costumes.” Just then she exhaled, feeling rather heavy for having to return the purse to her belt hook before drawing the content again.

“How far is this shop?”

“It’s the largest building at the end of this alley, you see,” she gestured, and he followed the direction where her arm stretched. “And the magical place is always full of queuing people!”

“Perhaps we should just walk then. That way I can see how your legs manage too,” he responded after a bit of contemplation.  _Another crowd,_  he pondered, not wanting to risk her being gossiped by the buyers or made into a spectacle for arriving with him _._ And perhaps he could slip away to a safe distance while she settled all her payments…

“What if I buy you a new shirt that is notblack there,” she grinned mischievously at him.

“No,” he replied with a comically deep, deep low tone. “Do not even try. I will  _defeat_ you.”

She sighed, raising her hands. The further they left the jewelry shop the more vacant and empty the alley was, as if people were reluctant to get out while the sun was still this bright. “All the anti-sun energy is exhausted in August, perhaps,” she mumbled. “Only exhaustion left.”

Ares followed suit when Lene stopped walking as they arrived at a specific building. It was a grand three-story magnificent wooden house, fenced by a pair of black iron doors decorated in gold-colored vegetal motifs.  _UNCLE’S TEXTILES_ could be read from a big wooden plate hung above the door. He approached the sealed door, knocking on it. “They don’t look open to me.”

“Strange,” she responded. “I told you, this store is always full of customers. The uncle also imports fabrics from all over Jugdral, making the store is the most reliable hub here in Darna.” She tried to push the door, but…

“Locked?” Ares stood, shaking his head. “Perhaps they are closed today.”

“I feel like I’ve been living under the rock then,” Lene sighed again. “I’m only isolated from the whole world for merely three days and things changed like this.”

“… Things tend to change when you are unaware indeed,” he nodded sympathetically.

... When the situation grew increasingly dire in Nordion. When his father spent more time locking himself up in the study, when his brows frowned in a contemplative manner as if he tried so hard to find an answer he desperately needed. When little Ares noticed Eldigan left for Silvail without taking Mystletainn with him. When gloomy atmosphere enveloped Nordion and the cross knights sent by the Lionheart to accompany him and his mother to Leonster. When he realized Aunt Lachesis did not return to Nordion after this father departed to have an audience with the new king. When his mother informed him for the first time that, from said day forward they would be eating only vegetables. When he eventually realized that his father was  _dead._

“I can’t believe it!” Lene muttered, not wanting to give up easily and began to linger around. “I don’t want to sound like a fretting customer, but usually they at least put up a sign. And you could see the jewelry shop was full.”

“Well, I don’t want to risk your legs if I take you home by horse and come back again later either,” Ares contemplated again. “Is there a place where we can wait so you can sit?”

“The back door is open,” Lene nudged Ares softly. Her tone was triumphant. “I will just check and see if they are open for business. If not, then…” now she wondered about the ‘then’. If Javarro returned the next day, perhaps Ares could not give her a lift like this. What left would be hiring a carriage...

“Then let’s return around the same hour,” knowing where her thoughts had flown, he responded with a tender expression in his eyes. “The chief also needs to rest,you know.”

“Gosh. You are so kind,” she whispered.

“I’ll take my horse for a drink while you check, I suppose,” he muttered. “I just… don’t feel like popping at someone else’s back door uninvited. You see, I’m still  _the_ Black Knight.”

“Your horse needs water,” she nodded, gently running her fingers through the mustang’s mane. “But the people who give you a hard time just for showing up with me sounds like the kind of people whose back doors I don’t really want to be invited to.”

 _You are kinder._ “Alright,” he nodded, catching a small tavern with a stable to accommodate travelers. She gave him one last smile before parting ways, and somehow he felt a bit lonely now that his arms were vacant since she was not leaning on him to stand anymore. Ares crossed the street, ushering his horse to the stable and went to the counter to pay for the services he needed. From the corner of his eyes he followed Lene’s movements as she disappeared into a back aisle, and cheerfully greeted the first teenage boy she saw.

“Edward! You are Edward, right? I nearly did not recognize you, why are you walking there with a somber expression of an old man?”

When he heard her amicable laughter, he believed he had made a wise decision to steer away. The  _last_ thing he ever wanted would be people stop socializing with her because his shadow lingered around her. “Lemon squash?” he startled when the tavern lady handed him a drink.

“Virgin, yes,” he nodded, feeling rather funny about the drink. He had cold virgin lemon squash when he was cranky a few days ago, and now that he was in a much better mood, he also ordered it. The freshness of the drink flowed through his throat and he was weighing in whether his companion dancer would like to unwind with him there later. At the same time he also noticed he had little interest toward alcohol whenever he was with her.

“I saw you coming from across,” the tavern lady spoke when he emptied his glass.

“My… acquaintance needs something from the textile wholesale,” he responded awkwardly. He hardly ever cared what in  _devil’s grace_  others thought of him or his alias, but at that time he just wanted to cuss—again?  _At least spare her from your judgmental eyes, for fuck’s sake—_

“They closed so suddenly,” the lady continued. “Actually, exactly right before you two came.”

And suddenly Ares just wanted to fight something… someone… anything. Perhaps people had seen him riding with Lene the moment they visited the jewelry shop. Perhaps people saw him coming into the store, and although this was not the area he frequented, it was not like his reputation was only known in the areas he did. Annoyance surged inside his chest, and he wanted the lady to get straight to the point while he contemplated leaving before his mere presence scared off unfortunate souls who happened to encounter him. “Oh?” was his answer, though. At least he wanted to make sure whether it was him or her they did not like.

The tavern lady concurred. “It’s just weird…”

“What do you mean?”

“That shop is never empty,” she repeated what Lene had told him.

“She knows,” he glanced outside—first to the direction where Lene left with the teenage boy, and to his horse since it was being attended by a stable boy. “Which is why she is checking.”

“Perhaps you should come to get your companion by now. I mean, in the morning it was operating as usual, but the owner started kicking customers out and roughly mumbled about closing,” the tavern lady responded. “I just don’t want either of you to be disappointed since you seemed to be journeying from somewhere afar. Those rejected people were here too about one-two hour ago, and they were  _pissed_  because they came for nothing under this heat.”

“Perhaps the shop needs extra helping hands. I’m told it is popular.”

The tavern lady cocked an eyebrow. “Ah, it’s a family business though, Sir Knight.”

* * *

  

Lene gleefully sailed the aisle. Her purse dangled at her belt with her every small step, and the teenage boy anxiously tailed behind her. “Miss Lene, are you… injured?”

“Let’s just say I overworked myself to spare you from all the boring explanation,” she gleefully nodded. “But I’m getting better, and will be back to dance in no time. Hmmm, now I wonder if the bad leg prevented me from pushing your store’s front door, Edward.”

The boy, who was probably fourteen at most, fidgeted with his blouse. The dancer had always been their store’s loyal customer, and although some people would complain because of the payment system his grandfather agreed with the dancer, the prima donna never failed to clear her bills so far when the expected time came. Miss Lene—the way his grandfather and most people at the store addressed her—was also nice and humble despite her fame as a dancer, and she hardly gave store workers a hard time unlike rich people with overbearing attitude who crowded the store every summer although they came with fat purses. “My grandfather is… feeling under the wind,” he finally mustered a response.

“I only want to pay him as usual,” Lene contemplated. “Still, if he is unwell, I’ll just say hi and see if your other relative would take my business. I’m not shopping today, really. Sorry if I insist, but I’ve been confined to my own bed to recover and today is the first time I could walk again… kind of. I’ll need to have a full rest after this so I can conquer the stage again.”

“Let me help you then,” Edward extended an arm to her.

“Thank you. Ah, you are growing into a fine man, aren’t you,” she chuckled, letting the boy take care of her. “Is that why you look so troubled, Edward? How is your grandfather?”

“It was… so sudden, Miss,” Edward averted his eyes when Lene bowed a bit to look at him.

“Oh, here we are,” Lene pointed at the store’s back door, and Edward stopped walking.  _The boy looks so uneasy,_ she pondered, and it started worrying her as well. Was the textile uncle’s condition that bad? Was that the reason why they limited today’s business—since his relatives were busy taking care of him? “Then perhaps it will be alright for me to pay the bill then, considering sudden illness like that needs attentive care and better medicine.“

“Miss Lene, I…” Edward fidgeted again, and just then Lene noticed he did not widen the slightly-opened back door to let her in. “Forgive me, but please—just—“

“Edward?” Lene was perplexed when the boy suddenly stood on his toes to pull her into his arms. Edward clung on to her, his arms enveloped her body. She hugged him back, not sure of what to make by this sudden gesture. The boy was rather trembling and she gently moved her hand to rub his back, hoping she could give some kind of comfort he desperately needed.

“I—don’t want to trouble you, Miss,” Edward’s voice broke in his throat.

Lene’s hug tightened around him. “You don’t,” she replied. “Is something bothering you?”

“Edward?”

A rough-sounding voice came from the inside. Edward startled, and hurriedly broke away from her as he reluctantly proceeded to step inside. Curious, Lene peeked as well—a muscular, rough-looking man stood with folded arms, and clearly looked verydispleased. She could hear his thunderous chiding, inquiring the boy what on earth took him so long to return. “I must go,” Edward hurriedly bowed at her. “A-and so must you, Miss. G-good afternoon.”

Lene watched haplessly as Edward bolted from where they stood, disappearing into what sounded like an unforgiving world behind the back door of his own shop. He was clearly uneasy, and seeing the boy behaving like that unnerved her as well. Perhaps she should go back to discuss it with Ares—a thought crossed her mind, because Ares actually  _knew_ how to make people talk without even realizing it himself. But would it be wise to barge in? Edward did not seem to want a guest right now, and the store already refused customers through its tightly-closed metal doors. Weighing in the pros and cons, she was about to take her leave to find Ares when voices from inside piqued her interest.

“Useless brat!! What did I tell you to do, trash?!”

“I’m—I’m sorry, I’ve closed the door as y-you asked, but people were s-so angry and t-they gathered at that tavern and I—“

“And did you find any horse at all?!”

“N-no, those customers angrily left b-because…”

“Useless human waste!”

“S-sorry! Sorry, I only did as you asked, sorry!!”

“What in the hell?!” Lene’s face was blue with anger now. Who was that just now—no, more importantly, what happened to Edward? Well, well, great textiles, but if the uncle did not bat an eye when an underage relative was being abused, then perhaps she should start looking for another place to fill in her clothing supplies.

“Make yourself useful now or I kill you,” the rough-looking man hissed. The boy whimpered at his feet, miserably curled in a fetal position. “And no unnecessary chatters, got it?! If you like to chat so much then perhaps I can break your jaw for you. Fucking vomit bag.”

“S-sorry, s-she said she just wanted to pay my grandfather…”

“Rather than apologizing, why don’t you do something  _right_ this time, boyo?!”

“Gods!” Lene gasped as the man kicked the whimpering boy before turning inside. She could not stand it anymore. Bills or no bills, the uncle had to know what she truly thought, and her purse first would serve as the boy’s first-aid. She pushed the back door, ignoring her legs. Fiery eyes, defiant body language—and she was determined to show whomever it was inside that he was not the only one who could get  _angry._ “What is happening here?!”

The door made a thumping sound as the furious dancer stormed inside. “M-Miss Lene?!”

“Edward?!” she hurriedly approached the boy, tumbling in the process. “You are bleeding!”

“N-nooo. Miss, your legs are troubled—“

“Oh stop saying that for now, will you,” she huffed. With her hands on her hips she proceeded to walk inside. “Excuse me, Uncle?! It’s Lene, can you come out to talk about Edward?”

“No!” Edward yelped, tugging on her hem as he dragged himself back to stand. “Please.”

“But…“ Lene stopped in her track, looking confused. She wondered if she had interfered in a way that could jeopardize Edward’s safety, but all she wanted was to see the textile uncle and probably got Edward out safely to reunite with Ares. After all nothing destroyed pompous asses more than the power of losing money ever could, right…? However Edward’s eyes bulged in horror as she crouched to check on him. Another shadow hovered behind her, and she hated those heavy breaths as much as she hated what that person just did to Edward.

“I heard you insisted paying bills?”

“There will be no business in the future if this is how you treat your relative,” her voice was deep and dark as she slowly stood up. “Uncle, you may be ill, but what in the world?!“

Edward grimaced when he saw how colors drained from the dancer’s face. The dancer unconsciously took a step backward in a retreating manner, and her hand went over her mouth, horrified of the view before her. A cool breeze swayed her ponytail around. It should have been refreshing, and yet… “I warned you, Miss,” Edward whispered sadly as the shadow started coming for her. “I tried so hard to warn you.”

* * *

  

Ares set his glass on the counter. What the tavern lady told him only worsened his uneasy feeling, and he still could not identify what exactly it was that prompted such uneasiness. She had told him—perhaps after witnessing many people ranting at her shop and wanting to spare either he and Lene from a fruitless traveling—that the shop was run by a family of merchants where ‘uncle’ referred to the elderly patriarch who headed the close-knit commerce network. The uncle even had his teenage relative to help around the store, she said, while other adults handled the supplies, transporting, and the warehouse. The uncle’s first son took over the export-import matter after the elderly mother passed away, and although his name was relatively unknown to other countries’ businessmen, the man had been making frequent trips to trading hubs such as Miletos, and like a true businessman he had the knack of just knowing the right goods to sell or buy. Edward—now Ares recalled how Lene approached the boy with familiarity—was the child of the uncle’s deceased second son, who perished with his wife when their cargo got caught up in a storm when he traveled back from Thracia. The carriage slipped and fell over a cliff, considering Thracia’s typology for inexperienced travelers who carried a lot.

The tavern lady honestly told him that she had no idea why she felt like spilling all these facts to him, but since he was new and assuming the store was underhanded, she thought she needed to tell him that it was not supposed to be the case. She then admitted it also felt uncanny to her, and the sealed doors, with the uncle’s grumbling customers to get out, piqued her curiosity too because it hardly something she ever noticed for as long as she ran her tavern across the street.

Ares’ head was full of thoughts, thanking the lady for the story. Pacing to the stable to retrieve his horse, he caught a looming shadow inside, and for a moment he felt relieved. “Lene?” he called. Perhaps it indeed was a wise decision to steer away from the shop. If the family did not even feel like serving many clients that day, why would a family of honest businessmen be interested to warm up to  _him_ —a mercenary with piling kill counts?

There was no answer. He wondered if she tried to prank him again, but it felt odd that he noticed the rein was rather loose and even more so the tether. If there was something he could be sure of, knowing Lene for nearly half a year meant he recalled she was not the equestrian type—at least compared to him, a mounted warrior from the start. She did not seem to spend time around horses often, considering she rode carriages, so why would she do these all? Ares slapped his forehead for forgetting something important—her legs were badnow. Why would she trouble herself by risking falling if these were just to play a prank on him? And as much as their banters went, she never subjected him in a dangerous predicament for joking.

Unless…

Ares huffed. His steps made noisy sounds as he clicked his tongue, completely annoyed by what had become of the horse. The stable boy made an even more unlikely culprit because sure he did not want to deal with a runaway horse, right?

So he closed the door loudly on purpose… and waited, with his ears glued to the door.

When he thought he heard rustling sounds from the inside, he stormed in, this time closing the door without a sound as his annoyed voice dominated the stable. “You have three seconds.”

He heard a startled, panicked muffled sound. And so did he of fallen straws and kicked bucket.

“So, did you mean to steal the horse… or kill me?” the Black Knight continued, asking those questions in a rather disinterested tone. “But if I found out that it was heryou targeted…” he let his sentence unfinished as he took asit over the scattered straws, blocking the door.

“W-waaaah!”

When a figure tumbled before him, Ares simply spared a glance in a manner akin to as if he was merely casually chatting up another. “Well?”

“I did not mean any of those things, I swear it—gulp!” the person went pale because the Black Knight’s naked Mystletainn forcefully lifted his chin with the blunt part to reveal his face.

“Aren’t you the boy Lene was chatting with before?” he asked, withdrawing his sword from the boy while the latter limped and coughed. “The lady at the tavern said you were called Edward?”

“Then… a-are you… are you the Black Knight Ares?” Edward crawled at the warrior. Surge of reliefs emerged from the boy’s formerly frightened expression, and Ares’ brows knitted when the boy addressed him like that. So no matter where he was, he just could not run, huh—

“And if I am?”

The boy seated himself. Ares frowned even deeper when he saw what the boy tucked behind his vest. That was—well, of course he recognized what it was.

The ivory-colored, feather-decorated purse he picked up for her after the night they got to encounter each other personally, the night he found her cussing a mud pond when her purse fell. And he had picked that one when he mindlessly shopped for blouses, recalling her defiant yet burning spirit not only for cussing the pond like she did a person, but also to brave the night with a sword she could barely wield. Some things reminded him of his younger self, and he really did not regret his decision to get her the purse—her confused look turned into a welcoming gratitude the night he could find her at the bar. The prima donna whose dances he had been watching for a while, rejoicing his tired soul during nights where Mystletainn fed on blood.

And seeing how the purse is resting in the hands of another, his feeling of uneasiness returned. This time he could not shake it off, and he wondered why he was also  _anxious,_ a feeling he thought he barely even had.

Still, he had to ask…

… So he did. “And how is she going to pay for the textiles now that you are playing with her purse?”  _It’s just some teen’s stupid mischief, right?_ —He thought again. He was just disturbed because loosened saddle and tether were dangerous and this boy just started growing up and getting more curious of women and their things. … Right?

The boy looked so broken the moment he asked of it. Yet without hesitance he pulled the purse from under his vest, placing it over the Black Knight’s palm he forced open. “I-I’m saving it. I didn’t—take anything. You can check.”

 _Saving it?_  “Kid, I’m not going to go through a woman’s personal belonging. So you better not either,” he replied sternly, taking the purse from him. But that simple action caused the boy to wince, and the Black Knight caught his wrist—gently—before the boy could hide it from him. His brows frowned again. “Is this blood?” he inquired as his jaw dropped to the ground.

“P-please, Mister,” the boy whispered. As his face closed in, Ares could now see traces of blood around his face and collar as well as an ugly blue eye. “S-she called your name w-when they—“

Ares’ brows dove even deeper like a preying eagle.

* * *

 

She wondered what went wrong. Recounting the event which unfolded before her, perhaps it was better to not ask. After all they said curiosity killed the cat, right? …

She smiled sadly.  _Probably it did a rabbit too._

A shadow had loomed over her by the time she bent to check on the limping Edward. Before she could react, the shadow revealed itself to be a man, who seized her right away. A soft scream escaped her lips when the bandit roughly tossed her body on the wooden floor, and whilst trying to break off from her captor she noticed something...

The textile uncle.

The elderly businessman was lying down motionless on the floor.

“Noooo! Uncle!" Lene rushed to get him. "What did you do to him?!"

“Relax, he is still alive,” whoever cursed soul who captured her intervened, mercilessly dragging her back at him. “… For now. So be quiet!”

“Who are you guys, really?!” she winced in pain when her captor pressed on her arms.

“Just a bunch of money-hunter,” her captor responded. “We heard this place makes a lot.”

“Why is it so noisy? Meathead, didn’t I tell you to keep everyone quiet so people do not suspect us?” another voice came from the inside. This man had a rough appearance as if his evil deeds manifested in his face—the unkempt hair, crooked teeth, gloating eyes which made her want to run away from. He sported such strong, strong-looking muscular scarred arms, and his eyes gleamed with pure blood lust. Just looking at his unsheathed silver sword alone made her feel suffocated, and noticing the blood stains on his knuckles made everything worse.

“Where is the boss?” Meathead—the bandit who captured her—responded.

“Told him to empty the savings, what else? That little wimp is too meek,” the horrifying man replied dismissively. “I disposed people he didn't have the heart to, yet there he is, keep running his mouth telling me how horrifying I am. Such an ingrate.”

 _What an odd way to talk about one’s boss,_ Lene pondered. The horrifying man was probably the group's capo, judging from the skill and act he showcased. Regardless, it was clear now that a group of bandit had taken over the shop, and much to her relief it was not that the uncle wanted to see Edward beaten—he was powerless to stop it.

The problem was that the capo started noticing her too.

“And what do we have here?” the horrifying man glanced at her. “My, my, pretty little thing, aren’t you? I thought I’d only need to kill some disposable dirt bags today.”

“Don’t touch me,” Lene hissed, feeling utterly disgusted when the man lifted her chin.

“Oh they all said that because they weren’t touched more,” the horrifying man laughed, making her wish she completely lost her ears just so she could not hear that tasteless, haunting sound. “So say, my dear. Perhaps I can make you change your mind?”

“Certainly,” her defiant answer came as her temper kicked in. “Perhaps by rotting in prison!” she twisted around, much to Meathead’s surprise when she wiggled to break free. Lene felt her spirit soaring when she caught them off guard—her training with Ares served her... oh, if only he was there with her. Ares taught her how to fiercely swing a sword, and take advantage of her trained flexibility as a dancer to backtrack an assailant to buy time to escape. Perhaps she could win this fight, she thought, trying to calculate a situation where she could at least disarm one bandit, probably grab his sword and buy her freedom to get out of this hell of a store.

“You can’t even pacify a woman?!” the killer bellowed at Meathead who looked so confused.

Lene bolted from there. Her left leg was dragging her, but it would be just a little bit more until she reached the back door. The bandit capo leaped so swiftly and blocked her exit, his eyes now gleamed with pure, pure thirst of blood and something else.

Something else…

“How fun. Try running, darling,” he whispered in a coaxing tone, nearly making her vomit in her mouth. “It’s been a while since I found a feisty one like this. Come on, don’t disappoint me. Run until you exhaust yourself… and then I’ll show you hell.”

Lene made a quick thought. Perhaps it was wrong to bolt insideinstead, but she figured if the other bandits could be tricked like Meathead there, then the front doormight have a better chance. Or she could probably hide herself somewhere in a big house like this, and then to find something she could use to defend herself in the process. The killer’s displeased comment regarding the boss did not escape her either—perhaps if she could reason with him, perhaps if he got the money he wanted, the boss would at least be sensible enough to take the group to leave without killing anyone. And probably to stop torturing people too, since that seemed to be the case—she muttered to herself, her expression grim.

And Ares would have no idea that she was fighting for her life right now … Or worse, if these bandits could trick people into getting in and falling into trap where they would be taken hostage, then he too … And she thought she had troubled Ares  _this_ much.

Lene stopped to catch a breath. She held on to the stairs, her left leg feeling sore due to the sudden muscle contractions. Perhaps if she barricaded herself upstairs… and held on a bit longer, Ares would notice she was missing, and at least out of curiosity, would check here.

 _… Perhaps,_  she thought, embittered. Did Ares mind babysit her like this at all? …

There were odd sounds coming from somewhere under the stairs. Whimpering sounds. And she heard footsteps from the uppermost floor.  _S_ he cussed in silence. Perhaps the boss and some of his underlings upstairs were done draining the money they wanted. So she stepped down carefully, trying not to make a sound.

“Where are you, my feisty princess?”

He was coming closer...

Lene could see a room—perhaps a little indoor warehouse—from under the stairs. Pretty small for adult men with those bandits’ size to fit in, but perhaps she could use it. A sanctuary. An unlikely place to hide. So she carefully took the wooden bar that sealed it from the outside to open the miserable space, and—

She had to press her hand against her mouth to stop herself from screaming. A couple of bodies— _people_ , she thought, feeling so ill at an instant—tumbled forward. Their hands were tied with rough-looking ropes behind their backs, and each of them had swollen, bruised faces and lips as clearly they had been beaten up before forcefully being locked inside.

And then she understood _._ The merchant family. Bundled like cattle ready for slaughter. Two whimpered in pain, while the other had been too unconscious to say anything. She understood why Edward appeared rejecting her.

... Too late though. Too late...

“Oh, so you found them? Congratulations!”

Lene gasped, tilted to where the sound had come. Meathead dragged Edward, slapping the boy when he struggled. The sadistic capo lazily tailed behind. His ominous cheery greetings made her feel so powerless... “No…”

“No what, my darling?” he casually hovered closer.

“No, don’t come closer... ah—!” Lene screamed when the killer leaped again. He seized her wrists  tightly, effortlessly swaying her body to usher her away from the abused merchants, burying her dreams of bolting upstairs to hide.

“See, I’d like to see you make more sounds like that,” the bandit grinned, forcefully bending her arms behind her back and tightened his hold against her wrists.

"Let me go!" Lene gathered all her courage, driving her knee against the killer’s lower abdomen. But the man appeared to be unaffected although she hit him hard. It was almost like he gloated in pain, whether he be the one to inflict it or be the victim of one.

"You want to play heroine? The pretty ones are always feisty," the capo roughly swept her off her feet, prompting her to jolt in pain because of the sudden movement he had forced on her troubled leg. "I can make it quick and painless if you'd rather obey us like a good pet."

Lene's blood froze at an instant. So they were going to kill her as well—probably torture her in blatant delight considering she had been fighting them? And she was completely alone. Her resistance was futile. There was no escape...

"Tie her up too. We'll dispose them later," the capo threw her easily like she was a sack of flour, into the arms of another bandit who grinned like a fisherman getting a prized catch.

"Stay put," the other bandit commanded.

She spat on him.

The bandit was fuming in anger, yanking her seized wrists to secure them behind her back with a rope. Lene's eyebrows twitched when the coarse rope bit into her wrists. It did not stop there because the bandit wrapped about two circles more across her torso to stop her from trying to wiggle free. When everything was done, she was pushed around, her back roughly bumping into a wooden crate of what appeared to be a box waiting to be shipped.

"Help!" she shouted, growing more desperate. "Someone, help us! We are taken hostage!!"

"Do you want to shut up the nice way or not?" the bandit who tied her up stood before her, balling his fist menacingly, earning immediate silence from her. She was hurt. Scared. And overpowered. The last thing she could imagine would be them actually laying a hand on her to cause her even more... pain.

_Why would I gloat at the idea of hitting you?_

Lene recalled Ares’ dumbfounded look when she teased him about his patience absorbing all her playful attacks without getting even. He was the one blessed with tremendous martial prowess. The one they called the strongest of all mercenaries. Yet there he was, being absolutely flummoxed at the idea of using unnecessary force, let alone to oppress another.

She tugged on her bonds. They were secure. If anything, doing that only made the rope to bite into her skin even more. She wondered if there were some bruises or scuffs around her wrists now, so she stopped struggling. ... On a waiting list to be killed... without a way to resist... Ares would not know what happened to her until it was too late.

Her mind was blank until Edward yelled at the bandits.

“D-don’t hurt her!” summoning all the courage he thought he never had, the teen tore himself off Meathead and slammed his own body against Lene to shield her. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Miss Lene,” the boy’s face was messy with tears and blood, but his eyes sparked a resolve. The dancer who asked about his grandfather—the dancer who just… hugged him in a very, very comforting manner nobody else ever did since he lost his parents in Thracia. The dancer who  _noticed_ when he was unhappy, the dancer who wanted to pay for her bills just so the family, who was actually  _richer_ than her, could use some extra penny to buy his grandfather’s medicine. The  _lies_ he presented to her, as well as his grandfather’s act of purposefully kicking customers out to save them from this horror. And yet after all those things, the Miss Lene he knew was still…

—And now he understood why his grandfather liked having the dancer around…

“Spare me from this chivalrous bullshit,” the capo growled. He looked down, finding Lene’s defiant eyes challenging him instead of fear, and he  _hated_ it. "Let's see if you can still look at me like that again after my blade fillet you alive, young lady."

“It does not change the fact that you are still a pathetic little man,” the dancer retorted defiantly. Gods be damned, did she have a temper. And gods be damned even more for she would not trade it with anything else. Damn the capo the most if he did not get to hear how pathetic and worthless he was even when she was at the brink of death.

“I’ll make you beg me for death after this little show you entertained us all with," the capo growled again, brandishing his menacing silver sword. "Where should I start?"

Lene tried to wiggle free. He was approaching her with a naked blade, and the same bandit who tied her up quickly secured her feet the moment she tried picking herself up to make a kick. "No!" she yelled, but the bandit did not want to take further risk. Wasting no time, he wrapped another coil of rope around her ankles, hooking a knot to connect said binding with the rope which circled her wrists.

She was being pushed again, her back bumping into the crate one more time, this time was less merciful than prior. The capo appeared truly displeased with her, and being tied up in such position did not offer much comfort. She had to settle sitting sideways because curling into a fetal position only sent more throbbing pain against her sore muscles and exhausted leg.

"You can do the honor by being the first blood to decorate my blade," the killer gleamed.

She trembled. Would this be the end? How wretched and miserable. But perhaps it was better. If Ares was with her, there would be a chance for him to be tortured. It was no secret that his notorious name brought opponents as it did clients. A group of bandits would not want to lose a chance trying to outdo Ares, if not solely for claiming to have slain the strongest.

Like an impending doom, the blade stopped when it was mere inch closer from her neck. She opened her eyes, finding another bandit spoke so anxiously that the capo got distracted. “Hold on, I—think I saw a familiar face at the tavern. I can't believe it, but you know the rumor.... the warrior clad in black with blond hair and fierce eyes matching his hair color?"

"Fucking shit. Why was he there?! Heard that horse-faced Javarro left for Melgen? Shouldn't he tag along as his guard dog?" the capo was baffled at a second. "Oi, boyo! You hired him, didn't you?! Don't try to fool me. I know you rich filths often play like that, hiring a bodyguard!"

"I did not! I swear—gah!” Edward whimpered when the bandit kicked his leg.

“Stop it, don’t hurt him!” Lene pleaded. But the conversation was distracting. Javarro… and a man in black with blond hair and infamous ferocious eyes…“… Ares?” Lene whispered out of reflex.

Still, it was loud enough to be heard by everyone else.

“So money dog has got a name which you happen to know,” the capo snickered at her. “Perhaps this is our lucky day. Ever since his conceited ass has been roaming around playing security guard, the rich folks are so happy that they don’t need to spare some pocket money for us rats. Must be why. Must be him… that son of a bitch!”

“Do you… do you begrudge him?” Lene’s voice trembled in her throat. The way the capo spoke of him showed nothing but ire. Everything felt connected now that she slowly thought of this—when Ares said the Chief was out for bodyguard duties for the rich’s shopping spree…

_So they ran out of luck because of his group and took their vengeance on Darna?_

_… And… more importantly… Ares is still waiting and not going anywhere as well?—_

“Begrudge him? What an understatement,” the capo hissed. “I  _loathe_ him! This pretty boy, a hot stuff? Hah! They said his cuts are perfect but what is this straight face telling his prey to flee when they lose their will to fight?! What kind of a sellsword is that?! If he thinks he can act like an underworld crown prince now that daddy chief is out of town…”

“… Is that so?” Lene let out a series of sarcastic chuckles. “Ares is not that kind of person. No wonder a trash like you won’t understand! He is not a senseless killer—no, he might be a mercenary, but he is a warrior... a knight both inside and out!!”

“What did you say?!”

Lene held her breath. The capo glared at her. He lingered closer. Closer, closer… well, too late to condemn her own temper now. She waited for a hard blow to finish her off, but surprisingly she did not regret using her last moment to shed a light about him.

… In a way, standing up for him made her shy too.

“I might find a way to use you after all,” the capo scowled. He quickly produced a strip of a thick burgundy-colored cloth out of his pocket. He twisted it before eventually nimbly shoving it between her teeth. Looking pleased to see how helpless and less-defiant she was, he went on to relay his threat. “Perhaps pretty boy will be willingly walking into his own grave if he knows his sweet heroine is here. Or who knows, perhaps he’ll wake up to smell reality and save his ass. Either way, it’s too late.”

 _What are you going to do with him?!—_ She wanted to protest, but the thick gag halted her words. Instead she had to settle with making murmured sounds. “—Mmm—ph—“

The killer threw a sadistic giddy laughter as he tightly secured both ends behind her neck, enjoying how her expression turned into utter horror. “People are disposable, dear. And he’ll learn that soon.”

“Mmph!” Lene protested, but the bandit merely put his index finger over her lips, now forcefully parted by the thick gag.

“Sssh. Save your woes. If pretty boy is as sweet as you think he is, sure he won’t mind to die together with you! Hahaha!”

“Mmmph!” Lene shook her head.  _Ares, no—Ares! Don’t kill him… Ares!!_

“Well, enjoy looking at your helpless heroine while she’s still alive, trash boy. Don’t blame me! Blame yourself for not being able to stop her coming here!” the capo goaded Edward, who looked so heartbroken. “Now we’ll only need to bait pretty boy here. Ah, finally… the proper hunt befitting my blade!”

“Mm-hmm,” Lene whispered at Edward, softly shaking her head.  _Do not blame yourself,_ she desperately wanted to convey. And yet…

Edward’s eyes met hers. The scared boy’s demeanor changed as he, with a broken heart, looked at everyone’s beloved Miss Lene who was helplessly tossed beside him—still defiant, but he could tell the dancer was near her breaking point. She was  _frightened,_  the boy assessed—and hunted down. Bound, gagged, and having to endure unsavory harassing comments as well as actions. And he was ‘only’ scared _._  Okay, probably got beaten up a bit. Yet…

_You are growing into a fine man, aren’t you?_

Oh, words he would never ever hear from his dead parents and busy uncles who engrossed themselves in business! Gathering all resolve, Edward nodded at her. His voice did not tremble this time. “The Black Knight would not notice anything. I will make him leave, how about that?” he tried to put on the bravest face he could muster. “If he won’t, at least I can try stealing his horse for you. You guys can just take our carriage and flee with it.”

“And why should we trust you?”

“What if his reputation turns out to be true? Not only you risk losing your loot, but also your life,” the teen tried to put up a casual façade.

“You’re saying we are weak?! He’s only one man and there are eight of us!”

“No. You think this Black Knight does not deserve all the reputation he harbors. Then p-perhaps he won’t hurt a kid. If turns out he did, you guys only lost me. And sure you can brag about him  _fleeing from you._ Fair, right? And since there are eight of you here, do you think he’ll risk his life just to play chivalry saving a damsel?”

“Ha! Little son of a merchant family. Sure you have a way with bargaining,” the killer responded. “I have a better idea. If he insists, why don’t you usher him here so I can pack his limbs in a bag?”

 _Are you going to sell Ares—no—_ Lene screamed into her gag again, but Edward nodded at her like prior. “Oops,” the boy muttered, tumbled at her side. Lene’s eyes widened when she felt Edward unhooking her purse from the belt and secretly tucked it under his vest. The boy sneakily tried to reach to her as he pulled a knot out of her restraints discreetly. “Perhaps you shouldn’t beat me up if you want me to be useful.”

“You  _will_ make yourself so or I’ll slice you open, rich boy,” the killer tugged on his collar and ushered him away from the helpless dancer. Still, Lene felt the ropes loosened a bit, and perhaps if she was determined enough she could—

“Spare Miss Lene out of this or there’s no deal, though,” Edward added, wincing when the bandit kicked him again. “You know by then I’ll be out and can call for help if I notice your people hurt her!”

“Just get going, goshdangit,” the capo shooed Edward. But before leaving Lene could see him grinning at her.

Somehow she wanted to smile. Everyone was fighting hard, she thought again, looking at the paralyzed victims who endured the abuses. But with the boy leaving that would mean she was the only person conscious enough there, and the thought of being left alone with a bunch of these wretched men did not sit well with her.

“Oi, lady,” the capo turned his attention at her. “You seem to worry about him. Are you his woman or something?” those bloodthirsty stares turned into something different this time. “Pretty boy likes premium meat, huh. No wonder he’s docile...”

She wiggled away when his fingers lifted her chin again. But the thought of being mistaken as Ares’—well, her cheeks just had to feel burning there, didn’t they.

“Sorry to put you in this predicament, sweetheart, but my hands will be busy disposing your dog. We can have fun until he arrives, though. Start beseeching me, heroine!” the bandit chuckled at her misery, his hand moving forward to touch her.

“Mmmmph!” Lene thrashed, shaking her head when the bandit captured her jaw. If that meant having a barrier between his touches and her skin, suddenly she’d rather just keep the gag. Her eyes bulged in fear as the killer, in blind blood thirst, started dragging her away from the rest of the victims—and the room they were in.  _No,_ she thought desperately, her throat feeling dry. She could see what it was now—no longer blood lust, but also—

_Lust?_

The killer’s silver sword glistened under her pleading stares. She made another loud  _mmmmph!!_  sound and a muffled attempt to cry for help, only to find the room silent, if not only filled with her own restrained screams. As other bandits rushed to collect their loot to the back door, she was left alone with the killer—and his blade was about to strike down—

“I’ll sign you for the Black Knight to see!” the bandit gloated on her, holding her to stay still. Even without restraints he had easily incapacitated her, and now with ropes around her wrists and ankles, all she could do was evading this cursed soul’s face on hers. She was so angry. She hated this helplessness, she hated how weak the ordeal made her to feel. She hated her restraints because they hindered from moving further to get away from the bloodthirsty bandit. 

“Help—someone!” she let out another _attempt_ to scream, frustrated now that the heavy gag filling her mouth only allowed her to make murmuring, whimpering sounds. What came out was yet another _mmmph!_ sound no matter how violently she tried to speak. Her face and the back of her head started to hurt because the killer had fixed the gag on her to be very tight.

The blade swung downward, ready to slice against whatever target it eyed. But seconds before the blade could land, there was a loud knock on the front door, setting the killer to stop. “I hate being disturbed when I’m supposed to have fun. Tch! Whoever that unfortunate soul was, die already!” Clicking his tongue, he walked up to the door.

The blade was brandished and he had an ugly sadistic smirk on him.

Lene took a deep breathe of relief when the killer left her. So she was spared this time—but what about the person just now? Probably someone just wanted to shop and had to suffer under these bandits’ cruelty. And what would become of her when the killer was done with that unfortunate person? What if Edward could not find Ares, whom, in turn, could not find her ….

Just then tears started to form in her eyes. That felt overdue because she had been so scared and keeping herself alert to survive, and yet…

She wondered if she should scream again to warn the person from entering. She could hear a loud  _thud_ sound, and chills were back haunting down her spine.  _This fast?_ –panicked, she started glancing around, violently struggling with her bonds.

_Come on. Come on, loosen you fool—_

She could hear footsteps, followed by grunting sounds. So the stranded traveler was still alive. And perhaps being tortured—imagining that alone made her want to throw up. The capo was sadistic and gleaming in blood lust. How should she escape?

“Mmmh,” she whimpered uneasily when the footsteps came closer. When she saw the capo’s face peeking in, she stopped moving to hide her struggles.

“Miss Lene!”

 _Edward?_ She startled. Yes, it was the kid. So he managed to convince Ares to leave? … That means her fate was sealed. But at least Ares was spared…

“Mmmph—!!” Lene tried to break free again when the killer looked at her.

“Where are you looking at? She is not your opponent.”

 _That’s—_ her eyes widened.

Yes, the Black Knight. _Ares_  stepped into the store, with the most devil-may-care disinterested gestures she ever witnessed of him so far. But stealing a glance at him made her aware that it was not the case… at all. Those golden eyes flashed insatiable demand for blood as if one look could engulf the entire store in flames. There was a scorching, burning volcano being cooked in his eyes as he spoke, and she could only watch when he strolled in. Hands in his pocket, eyes flashing a murderous intent with lips tightly pursed into a menacing smile. The lion cub had risen… and now he was hungry for a prey to hunt.

"You didn't let me in, so I had to invite myself. Normally I wouldn't do this, but our situation is hardly normal," Ares casually hovered inside, dumping an iron padlock against the floor, much to her witnessing bare eyes.

 _So the loud thud sound from prior was..._ Lene tried to move stealthily so that she could get closer to him. And then she saw it—the front door he forced open, whose lock he maimed with his sword. But she did not have much chance to contemplate it because he spoke again.

“If my ears did not deceive me,” the Black Knight smirked  _murderously,_ “you have said wanting to slice things, probably torture some and sign a body with blood for me to see? By Hezul, you and me two. So where should I start  _with you_?”’

“You—Black Knight, why the fuck are you even here—?!“

“Black Knight?” he made a dismissive tsk, tsk, gesture before his  _dangerous_ chuckles flew out of his lips. “Who? I’m just a pretty boy who lost his cargo.”

“Cargo?!“

“Yes. Her. How _dare_ you.” He landed a glance at her tossed body. His tone switched into a low, low  _potent_ deathly menace as his eyes squinted in a threatening manner, and she could only watch in a daze. She recalled how she kept teasing him about not being able to get angry, and now he was—silently  _furious_ perhaps was the right way to define it, and his killing aura was so, so strong and overwhelming she hardly recognized him anymore. Sheer blood lust came from Ares, his golden strands swayed a bit when he checked on her. As she struggled to not feel so paralyzed by his forceful killing instinct, the Black Knight’s eyes looked at her in such a regretful, regretful way that it was almost like he had hurt her himself.

“Good! Who would have thought you would be so innocently walking into a trap just because a pretty lady gets involved! You can’t escape now, I’ll make you  _cry_.”

“Escape?”

Lene blinked. Ares unsheathed Mysltetainn…

“I do not do ‘escape’.”

He lunged forward, and she blinked again. So adept he was with his sword, and how powerful his swing was! Power exploded in a thrust he launched. No fancy moves, no wasted maneuvers. In a split second he was face-to-face against the capo, snickering cynically as Mystletainn tore the vacuum around it to demand blood.

“D-damn it! Die, die already!!” the capo gasped. It was already hard, parrying the Black Knight’s strike. The warrior was nimble and strong with a powerfully overwhelming attack. After managing to defend himself somehow, he made a side-step to lure the Black Knight in order to catch him off guard, countering from his blind spot.

Her eyes bulged in horror... “Mmmph!!”  _Ares, no—watch out—!_

“This one?”

Lene stopped squirming.

Ares casually backtracked, changing his position so Mystletainn could parry the stealth strike. Sounds of metal colliding with the floor could be heard loudly when Mystletainn  _broke_ the silver sword in two, with the killer yelping as fresh blood trickled down from the new open gush the powerful demon sword inflicted on him. Ares  _sliced through_ the blade and injured the person. “This is  _attaque au fer,_ ” the Black Knight tilted at her, who was frozen where she was after witnessing the devastating counterattack. “… Well, not supposed to be this extreme,” he added, sounding awkward.

“Don’t make a fool out of me!” the killer roared, lunging at Ares.

Ares simply seized his left arm. The Black Knight dug his  _elbow_ deep into the killer's upper arm's muscle, disabling his reflexes to strike back. Without further ado, he grappled the killer, forcefully bending the weakened arm backward… of course,  _very unkindly_ so. Great, great pain jolted through all his veins as if Ares just slowly, slowly snapped his nerves one by one with his knuckle as his fist landed to hammer on the killer's triceps. When the killer cussed him, he answered back with a cross cut.

“No need. You’re already doing that to yourself,” he shook his head.

“Rrrahhh—!” the killer threw a punch at Ares. His right arm swung, forming a hook as his balled fist attempted to graze against the warrior’s forehead. But the warrior parried the blow with the base of his wrist, rotating around to entangle the offending arm. Bending again, he dropped his position, prompting the killer to lose his footing and haplessly landed against the floor—worse now that Ares’ arm crossed his from behind like a seizing door plank!

“If you want to seize a person, you should do it like this, you know,” there was an unmasked  _sadistic_ sparkle in the Black Knight’s eyes when he spoke. The killer grunted in pain because his right arm felt like breaking, and Ares merely chuckled. “Not so keen on touching people against their will anymore?"

He released him only to land a powerful uppercut against the bandit’s jaw. There was an ugly cracking sound to accompany the killer a moment before his body limped against the floor, and at an instant the capo’s lecherous, now-stupor eyes saw the stars.

“That’s it?” the Black Knight arched down to hover above the capo, whispering oh-so-tenderly with destructive venom within. “With all the things you told  _her,_ I expected not to get bored.”

 _… Ares…_ Lene tried to reach him, tumbling in the rope which bound her ankles.

Colors drained through the killer’s face, but the feared Black Knight merely chuckled and mercilessly stomped on his limped arm.

“U-uuuugh—!”

“That's for the touches she asked you to stop.”

 _Ares—_ Lene gasped, only as loud as the gag in her mouth allowed her to. Ares appeared so ferocious. So ferociously merciless...

The Black Knight just made another ugly cracking sound, but it did not look like he had an intention to stop. Another grunt came out of the killer's lips as Ares' boot went over his chest, putting immense pressure as well as cutting his air flow. “For a  _corpse,_ you are so noisy.”

"Argh—it hurts—!"

"Dying already?” Ares sneered wickedly, in a manner as if knowing that if he stopped spewing threats, his anger could have the voice and the result would be uglier. “Her courage is twice of a warrior than half you could ever dream of."

Lene could not believe her ears then.

“Let me tell you something about piling kill counts,” Ares whispered again, dismissively swinging Mystletainn to clean the blood stain. “You’d become numb. You’d lose your senses as a human being because it takes even greater tragedy to make your nose starts noticing the putrid smell of blood again. Sometimes you see them in your dreams. Sometimes foods start losing their tastes the moment they touch your tongue. And you will not be proud about it at all, which is why you’d rather people run before your blade is thirsty enough for blood that you can hardly control once it leaves the sheath.”

“S-so all those rumors—“

“And which one that might be?” Ares crouched, gently tucked the killer’s hair strands behind his ears. "Because  _dead men_  do not talk."

“You killed… a hundred—t-they said—“

“Oh. False,” Ares still chuckled as his hand started moving to the killer’s neck, feeling the bones and veins as he began to squeeze it. “Because they lost count.”

 _Ares, don’t—_ “Mmmmph!” Lene screamed violently into her gag.  _He is_   _angry,_ she thought again.  _Dangerously, seriously angry—_ she did hear what they said about him. A murder machine, they said, lion cub who knew no fatigue or retreat. And yet…

_Are there any more dirty dishes left?_

_This is real food, I won't get bored._

_Is there a place where we can wait so you can sit?_

“What is this commotion—“ a gruff sound descended from the stair, “you are—“

“I take that you are the boss? Our world is intertwined, so I easily assume the one with money bags is supposed to be the boss,” Ares greeted him in a dismissive manner.

“You—have you come for this store as well?”

“I don’t rob, Boss,” Ares raised his sword again. His tone was courteous, but even the most naïve person could tell how  _angry_ he was at that time. “I  _take_ lives.” The boss’ expression  _greatly_ changed as the Black Knight bowed before smiling.

That was a lion's warning roar before hunting.

* * *

 

Edward grinned like no other when he checked on his grandfather. The old man was alive, albeit suffering a cut. His sons were beaten and would need healers, but rather than that, the situation was under control and the store only suffered broken furniture. The boss actually had some sense in him—as he then privately confessed to the Black Knight that he never wanted blood to spill, let alone a woman to be violated. They were childhood friends, the killer and he was, yet as life broke over their heads the former best friend who only wanted to sharpen his sword skill descended into darkness after bathing in the blood of his first kills. The moment he heard Ares’ words about murdering a hundred, he knew he had to intervene and saved the friend from himself. But the Black Knight did not mince words.

“You could have done something when he started hurting my friend,” he glared at the boss. “So thank her for your life. Otherwise...“

Cold sweat dropped as the boss spoke. “Heard he threatened to send you to the Chief in pieces.”

“Threatened?” with the most, most menacing grin he mustered, the Black Knight chuckled. “That's an unusual way to phrase the lullaby he sang to me. Now get outof this town, coward.”

And with that concluded, Ares retorted to the next business.

Lene tried to sit because her limbs started to ache for being tied up in such position. Her cheeks began to feel numb because of the tight gag. The bad leg now throbbed again, as if knowing well that the adrenaline rush was over since she had been holding on to survive the ordeal. However, rather than thinking of her own predicament she was anxious to see  _him._

She was so sure Ares would not waste a time against the boss, but when the man dropped to his knees and begged him to listen, Ares did not say anything but sheathing Mystletainn back. She wondered what they talked to each other, grimacing at the sight of the collapsing killer Ares incapacitated. 

"Mmm—ph!” she reflexively let out a soft muffled squeal now that she felt another pair of hands started to tug on her. She winced, panicking. Her body ached. The bandits had tossed and dragged her a couple of times, and even then her muscles had not fully recovered. Worse, footprints of their aggressive touches stayed after the horror was supposed to be over, prompting her to feel uneasy when she sensed a sudden movement around her. However said pair of hands only helped her to assume a comfortable sitting position. As the shadow with the hands emerged from behind, she was relieved to find it was nobody else but Ares checking on her. 

His towering figure gently turned her to face him...

And strangely she did not dare to look at him the moment Ares unsheathed Mystletainn once more. The demon sword swiftly slashed through the ropes, prompting her muscles to rejoice when the strains caused by her bonds started to loosen up. Lene brought her wrists in front of her to rub them, easing the soreness due to the rope. She thought she could see Ares' feral gaze when he caught nasty shades of red around her wrists, but her Black Knight already moved to attempt straightening her legs whilst getting rid of the ropes altogether. 

“Your left ankle is swollen."

That was the first thing he said to her after the fight.

For a moment she jolted, recalling the killer's invasive uninvited touches on her. And she hated how her body had reacted. If only her body could just tell the two swordsmen apart, because she actually craved for proofs that this was over, and the person who sat beside her was Ares instead of the killer. There were many things she wanted to say—including how  _scary_ his face and demeanor had been as he reined in his blood lust while at the same time, taking hervengeance. Somehow the more she wanted to speak to him, the harder it was to find words. "Mm-hmm," she could only reply him weakly as her head bobbed in a simple nod to convey an affirmative answer. When he did not say anything, she motioned her hands upward to take the cursed gag off her.

But before she could, Ares' hands sneaked behind her, patiently undoing the knots in a careful manner that none of her hair strands were caught in the affair. "I was worried you broke a bone. Or rather, they did you," he spoke as he reached for the second knot. "I'm sorry for approaching you so suddenly like that. You must be unnerved..."

 _But you are not him. I hate that I unconsciously evaded you,_ she desperately wanted to say. Yet even as Ares managed to get to the second knot, somehow she could not signal to him that she too had something to say. Still, she appreciated Ares' swift work because in no time the cloth had immediately fallen loose over her shoulders. 

He caught it before the fabric could collide with her skin.

“I will burn this like you thoughtfully burned my shirt,” he spoke again, referring to the time when she had thrown his blood-stained shirt into a bonfire because he could not bear for having accidentally slain a child and had the blood on him.

She brought her hands onto her face while Ares ferociously watched the wretched cloth engulfing in fire, consumed by the hearth placed at the center of the living room of the merchant’s mansion. After ensuring it was burning perfectly, he got back to her. “Are you alright, Lene?" 

He immediately felt so stupid to even ask that. Of course she wasn't. In the stable Edward had recounted to him how they subdued her by force, and how valiant she had tried to fight them off. As his chest both swelled in angerand pride at the same time, he would not dream of blaming her had she cowered and chose to surrender to them at a blade point out of fear.  _Anger is a luxury,_ he told himself, remembering the forced taciturn facade his mother put up as she slowly undid the dress herself in exchange of warm food for his feverish little self. How he thought he was close to dying because he could see his father's angelic smile looking down on him. And he thought even he only had himself to blame.

“You are angry,” she whispered, finally gathering shreds of spirit she thought she had lost, slowly leaning against the wall to stand up.

He looked like he wanted to rush to help her, but halted his paces in the last moment. “... I was,” his voice was distant and apologetic.

“So that’s—that’s what it is like when you are.”

_****W**** hat are you doing?! Do not touch my mother!_

_What am I doing? Why don’t you keep your mouth shut already ** **—****_

_By Hezul, please, stop hitting my son ** **!****_

_I’ll make you moan that name again, Grahnye ** **—**** in pleasure._    

“I used to tell you that anger is a luxury,” Ares replied. “Somehow I’m rather glad I could affordit at last. Now that I’m older—stronger,” he emphasized on the latter, “I can afford what youand others can’t.”

“And... the rest of the bandits?”

“Don't worry. Big houses have big trash cans outside,” Ares grinned mischievously, relieved to be able to change the topic and got to retort to a lighter conversation. “They are alive if you would kindly disregard broken collar bones. And uh, black eyes. Actually, I should thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?” Lene frowned. It was him who saved her, and yet he thanked her?

“I—“ suddenly he retreated from her, feeling like he had no right to be in her personal space since she just endured threatening touches from an unsavory man. “I have to thank you because I’d be draining his blood  _dry_ had you not attempted to call on me. Mystletainn knows its prey and thanks to you, I managed to tame my... our... blood lust. And of course I have to apologize for making you witness all these gruesome details when I taught that scoundrel a lesson... and arriving late, perhaps.” 

"You are thanking me, and apologizing too," she hid her smile, purposefully sounding annoyed. "All the while for saving me. Really, Ares, being such a cute cub in such situation?!"

Lene smiled again when she caught crimson shades emerging on his face. "Well," clearing his throat, the Black Knight grabbed Edward's lingering figure to bring him before her. "Rather than concerning yourself about me, something needs our attention here... oi, apologize to her.”

“H-huh? Ares—“

“So are you doing that or not?” Ares gave a not-so-light pat on the back of his head. “You should have done better if you wanted to protect her. Or you know, everyone else.”

“Ares, stop! He had tried his best to save me!” Lene chided disapprovingly. “He weaseled his way out of here to find you, didn’t he? And had he not taken my purse, you probably thought this was way too weird to be true.”

"I would still come without the purse."

"... Ah, Ares..."

"You are a rabbit," he tore his gaze from hers. "Of courseI notice when you are not hopping around."

"T-that seems to be the case, huh? I won't let you get away with that," Lene pouted, prompting Ares to chuckle a bit.

“You see, I did not say Edward did not do anything,” he continued as his soft chuckles died down. “But he had better chance before. The bandits already raided your store the moment Lene found you, is that correct?”

Edward gulped. “Yes, S-sir.”

“I thought so. And yet you stalled informing her. Dragging her back to where I waited would have been better than letting her proceed to get in at all. Just about yesterday she winced each time she moved her legs, don’t you get what she gave just to pay your store?!” he bellowed. “And had you told  _me,_ we might be able to save your family before they were taken hostage. What on earth are you doing, risking her to take the beatings for you?!”

"I did not... intend it to be like that, M-Mister."

“Ares, he’s just a boy—“

“He had a hand kidnapping you.”

"He was just trying his best, since when kids couldkidnap me again?”

"Since today!" Ares growled. "This 'doing his best' should not include kidnapping you," he folded his arms, clearly impatient. And Edward watched in awe again when their beloved Miss Lene did not back down at all. She had the same defiant gesture as her fierce eyes subdued the Black Knight’s.

“He was scared. He did what he could to withstand the ordeal,” she  _glared_ at him. “You—do you know what it’s like to feel so helpless and—violated?”

“I know,” he stared back. The image of him cowering under the bed as his mother’s raspy voice pleaded with the lecherous landlord. How he even hated his father for a moment for leaving them. How he hated the bastard Sigurd for robbing his father away—

"You  _don't_ ," she shot back. "You are a man."

"I... see," Ares took a step back, understanding what she implied. Her words felt like a vicious slap across his face, but at the same time he also felt  _liberated_  somehow. And yet he thought he knew even after witnessing the pain his mother had to go through. Turned out if not because of her, he still did not  _understand._

“And do you know what it’s like to be too young to call yourself a man and—almost brutally beaten when attempting to protect a family member..."

“Now  _you_  have no idea about that,” Ares’ bitter reply came. "Let the boy speak for himself. You have been too kind today." His tone was too bitter for his liking, and to think he just saved her from cursed hands—and well, look at her eyes widening again like a rabbit— _concerned,_  he cussed himself in discreet—because she seemed to catch there was a turmoil inside of him. 

… She usually did a good job doing that.

"What is it that I don't know?" she murmured, squeezing his arm in a comforting manner. "Please share. You look like you are in pain."

Damn she did, Ares studied her face again. Could he? Could he tell her who he actually was, and how life brought him to Darna? Would she run away if he was to reveal everything? Gods be damned or praised, the boy intervened. But he was relieved.

“I’m… sorry, Miss Lene…” Edward whispered. “I was scared, but… but I imagined you must be… even more frightened. And seeing how you kept fighting… gave me courage.”

“Edward—“ Lene and Ares spoke the name at the same time, and they turned away from each other.

“They were being so rough to her, Mister!” the boy chirped again, gulped when  _Lene_ shot him a deathly glare— _stop giving him ideas—_ and  _Ares_ giving him a murderous look— _did I miss something, or is there an extra credit I need to ** **shake**** out of them? _“So my apologies again, Miss Lene. And thank you, Sir Ares! I feel braver today after meeting you! I'll be a better person in the future, and I'll make sure you see that!”

With the boy leaving them and all her bills cleared, allthat was left would be Ares carrying  _three_ beautiful, prime-quality silk bolts the textile uncle gifted for Lene. The old man had refused her money too. Lene was beaming with joy, hooking her purse to her belt for the money she saved. All ended well, except for Ares who drowned in the extra labor.

His legendary death glare returned when the old man’s son, all smiles and well-meaning, offered Ares if he would want some nice yellow or cyan-colored blouses for helping them. “Black seems to be out of date, innit?”

“Thank you,” the Black Knight  _scowled_. "But  _NO_."

Lene tailed behind Ares. Her gesture was a bit subservient, not only due to today’s ordeal and the argument she just had with Ares. The Black Knight was done fastening the silk bolts over the horse, and was now performing extra checking to make sure everything was secure.

“Um…” she started, but she could not finish it.

He stopped, waiting. When she did not say anything, he was back to check the rein.

“I… didn’t mean to…”

And then he stopped again. “… You tried so hard to speak to me when you were still tied-up,” his voice was rather husky. “And you are silent after I burned the gag?”

Lene sighed. “About a little boy’s helplessness..."

Now  _he_ sighed. “I got your point. Admittedly I was rather harsh on that boy.”

“I feel so bad now because I sensed that you endured horrible things as a boy, and well—I… probably should try seeing your point too. I mean—it’s not that I didn’t know you said what you did to him because you were concerned for my safety, you know?”

“Don’t… concern yourself over small details,” Ares closed his eyes. He hated that no matter how many years had passed, his mother’s broken expression was still vivid when it emerged.

“And that’s what I wanted you to understand!”

 _Her voice rose. I hope that means she already recovered from today’s ordeal._ “Which is…” he waited, clutching the silk bolts meant for her as if he was holding on to her.

“That a person who has endured so much like you should have understood this better than everyone else! Wouldn’t you wish that there was an adult who understood our pain back then, shielding us from all the grievance and suffering we experienced as a child? And—and now that we are no longer children, don’t you think it is better to be… the kind of person we wished to be there for us when we were children?”

His eyes were now wide open.

“So I’d—perhaps I’d rather cradle him a bit so later on he shall be the kind of a man who cradles others when they need it,” she finished her sentence, panting—not just because of the passionate deliverance, but her body was aching.

And just then she felt her left leg had been enduring too much for the day.

She gasped as her body lunged forward again. The left leg lost its power to support her, and the throbbing pain around the ankle started demanding her attention. In a moment of dire she tried to reach for anything—anything at all to be her pillar before her face kissed the dirt.

_Thump._

Lene slowly opened her eyes, anticipating the dirt around her, or the hot surface of soil she had to be landing on. However she found none of what she expected because instead of the road, she found herself securely landing in the arms of the Black Knight.

“S-sorry for being a rabbit, I guess,” she whispered.

Ares shook his head. “Then don’t guess."

“What—ah!” Lene squealed out of reflex when she felt being lifted off the ground. Ares had his arm behind her shoulders as another supported her legs. In a dismissive manner he carried her to the horse while she was nearly out cold of…  _shyness._

“Please spare my hair this time or we will bump into the horse’s butt.”

“At least you are gallant enough to warn me about  _that_ ,” she pouted, yanking his hair as she typically would. “If we bump into thatyour face comes first, you know?”

“If it happened, though, I might drop you.”

“Don’t use my tone against me!”

“If I dropped you then I might accidentally kiss you since you are clinging onto my neck.”

“Don’t say that with a straight face either!”

“… So I should just say I might accidentally kiss you, but with funny faces?”

“What kind of offer is that again? And yet  _again_ you said that with a straight face.”

“But comedy is art too or so I have been told.”

“… Ares—“ she started to chuckle.

“Not so art-blind anymore.”

“Colorful shirts are a form of art too then.”

“Then I am art-blind.”

“What is with you and this holy vendetta against vivid colors?” she started to giggle more and more as they were back to throwing banters against each other. 

He lifted her on to the horse, and she was thankful because the graceful sitting position helped easing the tension with her legs instead of the typical spreading position. But just as she started pondering how she should position herself since she would be behind him as his passenger, the Black Knight began mounting… and positioned himself  _behind her._

“Are you comfortable? It's okay to lean on me.” He spoke to her, his gloved hands began reaching for the rein. She suddenly felt so shy because his body was right behind her, and what he offered somehow only prompted her awkwardness even more. It was a nice one, and he had been nothing but considerate to suggest it—and he was right. She used to think how she hated him for being right, and… admittedly, she hated how  _she_  hated him for being right.

Just then she decided to just go along with it. Resting her head against his chest never felt so natural, and she wondered if he would forget this the moment he woke up the next day. If only the people around him could see how kind he was. If only he himself could see there was much to him than just a fearsome mercenary with a piling kill count...

“Ares,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“Your silk bolts are safe right behind you.”

“Is my hair troubling you?”

“I don’t begrudge ponytails, did I not tell you?”

“… I guess,” she whispered again.

“You love to guess,” he responded tenderly.

“The sky looks amazing.”

“It is the golden hour.”

“Even the sky is fashionable.”

“No.”


	12. Inspiration

They stood face to face against each other; him standing against her.

The sky appeared like some kind of a mist ball. Soft light blue color started emerging as golden rays began to light the world. It was still early in the morning, and remnant of a night’s cold air was more tempting than a siren’s lull to sleep. Fresh, cold morning breeze swayed around them, and he could not resist commenting when he caught her turning away from him.

“You are yawning.”

She tilted her head back at him. “I am not.”

Her eyes were defiant, and he inhaled the fresh air as he studied her again. Her response was quick, and her hands were soon back on her hips—something he noticed she would do when she was disgruntled. And her hair, normally tied into ponytail, would swing a bit when she made that huffing gesture he had known pretty well after roughly five months and a half of getting to know her. While noticing little quirks she made on occasions, he started noticing other things. Like how fresh the morning air felt, and how even the coldness of desert temperature at night and early morning felt liberating in the sense as if everything of his person was purified again to welcome the new day. Although his day might proceed as usual, evening dance performances he had been attending and his sudden realization of what weather felt like somehow made him feel like a new person… a human person.

And before these months he barely noticed anything to _feel_ them.

“You yawned.”

“No—“ she wanted to protest, but her sleepiness kicked in. “… I did not _not_ yawn.”

“It’s alright,” he simply chuckled a little bit when she turned away from him again. The breeze gently stroked her soft, graceful white dress, making the purple lace embroideries around her sleeves rock back and forth. Her legs were now firmly planted on the ground, and only after noticing that he breathed relief. “I see that you have recovered too.”

“Some people think it’s not so graceful,” she mumbled. “And yes.”

“What does that have to do with anything? You are sleepy. You yawn. And?”

 _You are not some people,_ she thought again, thinking how he was already different compared to other… most men, specifically. She had no idea if others even noticed, but the Black Knight tended to display duality of ferocity and tenderness; something which might seem uncanny or even weird for others yet no longer surprised her the more she knew him. He did not seem to care about propriety too much when it came to assessing her although he displayed some instances where he seemed to observe a personal code of honor, or so she thought. … Or perhaps he just did not care.

“Maybe you are too nice,” this time her defiant eyes smoothly dissolved into cheeriness.

He sighed in discreet. Not in a bad way, though. Albeit not saying much back then, he was genuinely worried of her left leg by the time he dropped her at her house. The maniacal capo who was with a band of bandits that robbed the textile store she frequented had pressured her into running, fighting… causing her left ankle to be swollen right when she was still healing her tired dancing-overworked muscles. He was just about to rush outside to get the witch doctor old lady who had been helping her recovery for the last four days, but ended up helping her with the lantern and food as she asked him to stay a bit longer when the night came. Even after it was past, he could not think of the incident without feeling like cussing, with or without her knowing. “You sure have plenty of unpopular opinions to offer,” he finally spoke.

He did not want to recall the incident, but even for someone who hardly felt, he could not just pretend he did not experience the aftermath with her. She had sheepishly asked him to stay a bit longer, with voice so soft it almost sounded like a whisper and face down that she looked at him from her lashes. When he announced he would be there but just not within the proximity of her bedroom, in a voice even softer than before she muttered that she did not think of him as a bother. And he offered a small nod as she buried her head under her blanket, feeling odd why it was rather hard to look at her at that moment, a thought which still lingered by the time he exited her bedroom to seat himself on a comfortable velvet sofa outside like a guard dog.

“Then here is another: I’m ready for your sword lesson again,” her eyes lighted up upon hearing his simple comment. She began to undo the layers of cloth wrapping her sword, and as his eyes followed her movement…

“Are you sure?” he did not mean to sound like he did not believe her, nor did he want to come across pestering. After all if there was something people would talk about him, it would be his indifferent demeanor regardless of how bad or good the news was, regardless of how merry and lively his surroundings had become when the mercenaries burned away their money and suffering by treating themselves to food and boozes.

Still, last night was still fresh-hot in his mind. He had genuinely conveyed to her that it simply did not feel right for him to be within close proximity. "Considering what you just went through," then he added, in a deferring manner as he averted his gaze from hers. But there was a faint look of sadness in her eyes when he said that, and she would have paused before whispering to him how the night was dark, too quiet to be alone just like how she felt she had been crying for help for forever until he showed up.

“There is only a way to find out,” she finished unwrapping the sword, and was now making a fight-ready stance with it.

His eyes traced her stance, noting how those defiant eyes returned to echo her determination. And yet last night under the dim lantern light he could see her cowering as he pulled up the blanket for her. As the night began to fall, his watchful eyes peeked inside a bit only to find her relaxed posture as she drifted to sleep. Leaving her apartment without making a sound, he thought she would add one extra resting day if only for the sake of sorting out her anxiety. But he was gravely mistaken when he found her figure waiting for him at the butcher’s stand, knowing well it was the place he would reach to each time he did the shopping for the group every morning. If not for her usual peppy morning greetings and her calling his name—not his alias—he would have thought he was dreaming.

... Well, he almost forgot that to many people he had no birth name anymore.

“I sure will. Hold that position,” he responded, patting her thighs with a Mystletainn.

“So?”

Clearly enough there was impatience in her voice, and he could not resist a faint smile, recalling the morning event when he met her. When he could barely muster a response to the unexpected encounter, she held her sword at his face with a knowing look, and before he knew it she had ushered him to the same river where he first started getting more serious with training her before. “Yes. We can proceed,” he answered when she did not look troubled with what he did. About yesterday she still winced when he dropped pillows over her legs, and after her run-in with the bandits it would not surprise him at all if she would tumble again and fall.

“For real? Alright, then let us just—“ ecstatic, she made a gesture of swinging a sword.

“It heals quickly,” he said before dropping his chords to lower his tone. “Rabbit.”

“Hmmm? I’m actually not new to muscle injuries, you know. Dancing is rigorous, and you will get tired after a while since you tend to burden the same muscles and joints again and again. So, muscle recovery and relieving joint pain is typical for me,” she responded. “Some ice for the ankle, hot baths, rubbing herbal oils… but if you give in, you end up doing nothing. After all you need to keep the muscles working, otherwise there’s a chance to feel stiff afterwards.”

“So you are used to pain.”

His tone was flat as he was merely stating the obvious, yet each time he did that there was always something tickling that gently coaxed her to respond more. As if he just tore a layer, revealing something she herself hardly even noticed at all. Awkwardly tearing her gaze off his, she responded… softly. “Like you, I suppose?”

He did not respond.

She held her breath in her throat. Some days it would tend to be like that—questions she asked about his heroic… or rather, bloody exploits, even though in a passing, would be met with his silence. Still, some days there would be moments when he became transparent enough for her to read, and usually it would be due to something unexpectedly simple which successfully resurrected his memories from the deepest of mind box. However after a while she began to understand that he was merely minding what he was about to say, and in a way she took it as thoughtfulness considering he hardly minced words.

“… Ah, sorry,” she eventually went on.  “Perhaps I shouldn’t compare us like this. After all, the pain is not… the same. Your life is at stake each time you are out on a mission.”  

“If I lost my right hand I can still try wielding the sword with my left,” he shrugged. “But if you lost your legs—no, leg...“

It was her turn to not respond.

“We have our respective battle we need to survive,” he added when her expression turned gloomy. “So do not compare your job to mine.”

He had expected her to get even with him, or at least feeling rather annoyed by his response. After all it had come off rather curt. Regardless whether he meant it or not—people getting used to his curtness aside, or rather, him getting used to people’s judgment about him aside—he would think she might take that she had been rebuffed unkindly … Yet she was one of the few people who would apologize to him. His lips parted into a bitter smile whilst thinking such, because… really, was there anyone else beside her, though?

However all predictions were gloriously cancelled because she _smiled._ “Thank you.”

“See,” he shook his head. “Another unpopular opinion.”

The training proceeded as usual after that. He watched her swinging the sword, taking into account how she had improved since the last time he shared tips with her. The more he watched her the more relieved he was when everything seemed to be back to normal as usual, more so with her glancing at him each time she made a thrusting movement. Of course ‘usual’ meant she bit back at him per usual.

Ares grinned. He heard Lene shouting “Did you see that?” when she eagerly brought down her sword, one thrust after another while he watched under the tree. Each time she felt she did a great job she would tilt her head at him, her face exuded satisfaction as her smile blossomed. Something tickled inside as he watched her keep going, and he found himself feeling satisfied too, something he hardly even thought before.

“Twenty five…” she mumbled her swinging count. “Oh, I’m all sweaty like this!”

“It’s alright,” he stepped closer. “Pardon me a little bit.”

He had come behind her to check how her muscles contracted when she swung her sword. After more than twenty swings Ares expected to see a habit change, and he was pretty pleased when he noted how her form got steadier. Of course his polite tone did not escape her either. He made his way slowly as to not startle her, another little Ares thing she had come to appreciate. “What are you doing?” she asked mindlessly.

“Seems your shoulder blades start getting used to it,” he glanced at her back.

“Do they?” she laughed again. “You taught well, you know?”

Right when he started wondering if he had been a bad teacher since she seemed to enjoy this… a little bit too much than he predicted. At the same time he also wondered if he had been pushing her too far since she diligently picked up what he tasked her in regards to sword training. “No, I don’t,” he could only say so.

“Then now you know,” she flicked him in the nose.

He smirked when she got him like that. “Do that again with the sword. I need to verify that.”

“Alright. What is the rule then?”

“The rule is there is no rule,” he replied firmly. “Catch me off guard. Try it.”

“That does not sound fair,” she shook her head.

“It actually is fair,” he reasoned. “I am the more experienced one, so…”

“That it will be easy for you to counter me?”

“On the contrary, Lene,” he shook his head.

"How so?"

"For you, the first challenge is trying to situate yourself being in a real combat. And when it succeeds, the essential task that is left will be about trying to strike your opponent announced. Your attack is a success when the opponent does not expect it. If the basics are conducted well, you can win the fight," he responded. "And we are not only going to train in that because surprise and anticipating surprise make the most vital elements of fighting. Suppose you fail to subdue the opponent in that one chance you have, there are still precaution steps you can learn so that the table does not turn on you. And that is why people train.”

She stole a glance at him as he relayed the explanation to her. _Not a good teacher he said,_ she grumbled in discreet, yet her lips parted into a smile.  

“… Something odd on my face?”

She coughed just to wipe away the smile. … Too late, though. “… Well, Ares, I mean…”

“Yeah?”

 _Now he looks guarded._ “I do not want it to be unfair for you too!” somehow it started to be rather hard for her to hold on when he was there, waiting for her turn to speak, with his eyes fixed on hers. Her response had come a bit louder than she wanted—as if she was yelling at him. And now she was ashamed of her rather passionate delivery she totally did not plan, for her body arched forward and her fists balled at her sides. “Um…” she quickly made a withdrawing gesture. After all she should be thankful that he decided to go easy on her, right? And even then, perhaps he was not feigning ignorance when he said he had no idea that his teaching worked for her because… considering the townsfolk already questioning their acquaintanceship, she figured people would have been chattering if the Black Knight was ever heard of taking a pupil. After all they knew him being an aloof person who barely talked enough to have the conversation counted as a chit-chat.

But Ares simply paused. His eyes widened for a split second before his self-containment returned, perhaps too suave for her comfort. “I… don’t understand.”

“What?” boy, if only the townsfolk could predict that her chats with the Black Knight would mostly consist of surprising each other with unexpected responses… “I just… don’t want to hurt you. That’s what I mean,” she explained slowly. “You tend to do that.”

“That?” his eyebrows knitted.

"N-not that kind of  _that_ ~! Not something steamy!"

“… Steamy? I’d rather have a hot bath at night because it helps me to have a good sleep and relaxes my muscles. If you fight pretty often, sometimes you just don’t realize how tired you are until everything is done,” he cocked an eyebrow. “Thank you for the reminder, though.”

“No—“ she facepalmed, “Gods, your title does not suit you.”

“You are the first one to ever tell me that,” he chuckled. “Somehow feels relieving, but I cannot formulate why… yet.”

Either Lene wanted to fight herself or facepalm harder, nobody knew for sure. Still… “You are so… innocently kind at times,” she mumbled. “And I thought I yelled at you—I mean… simply put, you tend to be so lenient like that, you know? As if it is alright for me to do these things and you are not disturbed at all. I just wanted you to know that I don’t want to hurt you,” the last bit was spoken even fainter as her head nearly sunk into the ground when she proceeded. “But at the same time I’m aware that I won’t make an entertaining opponent if we ever… I mean, if _you_ ever… get serious, so…”

“I will never turn my sword on you.”

“I know, but still…”

“Then what are you trying to tell me?”

“… I—I don’t make sense, right,” she chuckled awkwardly, her hand motioning a repeated waving gesture.  “Perhaps I should just—“

She stopped talking. Her eyes widened when she saw a fast movement which caught her off guard. Something—something came so quickly from the corner, and she reflexively closed her eyes thinking it would bump into her. However instead of a collision she only found…

“Got you.” His index finger reigned on her nose. He stopped just right at the perfect spot to flick her back. Ares’ tone was emotionless if not deadpan as usual, and he continued speaking when she slowly opened her eyes again. “Now that you stopped panicking, my turn to speak.”

“… Alright,” she held her breath. Why was his… she hardly could tell anymore—kindness? Gallantry? His—whatever, so nice, yet so aggravating at the same time? And it was also embarrassing because he seemed to catch up quickly when something was bothering her.

“For starters, admittedly I did notice something,” Ares began, unperturbed by her demeanor. “That minus the ponytail, the top of your head reached my upper chin as you arched like you tend to do when you are about to passionately argue with me, so… that makes you only slightly taller than my shoulders, is that right—“ he stopped when she pointed her sword at him, with the same ominous, ominously evil-yet-beautiful smile she would make whenever she wanted to signal complete annihilation to him.

“I believe there’s more?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“That’s better,” Lene spared him a devilish laughter while Ares feigned gulping.

“Indeed,” he merely smirked. “Since you can talk to me again without reservation.”

“Cheater,” she scoffed.

“I notice you said that smiling.”

“I notice you love getting bludgeoned with a sword.”

“Indeed I do, how am I a mercenary again?”

“Ares!”

“Alright, I got carried away…” he muttered, his serene chuckles started pouring. “I state it again, it is fair for me. You probably thought by being the more experienced one I was proposing you could just try striking me as like because hey, I’m strong, then so what. And…”

She nodded before cutting in, “and I hate it when you suggest yourself being a punching bag!”

“I am used to… various kinds of typical sights you can commonly find at a battlefield,” he managed to give yet another diplomatic answer, finding a way to weasel with words to evade graphic descriptions of violence. “So that is true too in a sense.”

She fidgeted.

“Did you evade arguing so I stop calling you short?”

“Oh, you. Just continue,” she lightly slapped his shoulder.

“You are the one learning here. And I invite you to strike me because I want you to be able to overcome your doubts. If you cannot trust yourself even for a split second, how is your sword going to obey you?” he proceeded. Somehow the memory of his father’s sitting figure one hot summer day emerged, and he found his words only came off softer and softer as he conveyed his gratitude secretly from the heart. Some dreamy years ago, when he barely started to learn speaking and left the baby-talk phase. He had found the tall, strong figure of Eldigan the Lionheart swinging a sword by the time the sun ray peeked into his home castle’s window.

 _Da-da, no ‘fraid?_ He asked, watching a drop of sun ray formed a halo to frame his father’s golden mane.

 _No, Ares._ The Lionheart stopped, wiping his sweaty forehead as he began scooping his heir into his lap.

 _Why? Sword ‘scary_ , the cub responded. His little hand tugged on his father’s mullet.

 _Hezul’s strength starts growing, eh?_ The Lionheart chuckled. Gentle, gentle smile blossomed as he scanned the corridor to see if the cub had come with someone else. _Where is your mother?_

 _Sleep, zzzz_ —he made the gesture. N _o play sword. Tired. Mama bad._

The Lionheart examined him in a contemplative manner. _Perhaps it’s time for you to start spending time with me. I can play sword better than your mother. And yes, Ares, it is scary. However…_ the cub then found himself being seated on his father’s lap as the latter began talking about swordfighting.

“… I’ve never thought of it that way,” Lene found herself mumbling. “So, akin to… stage fright?”

“Now _I_ have never thought of it that way,” Ares responded in a humble manner. “I suppose. And no matter what people tell you, in the end a sword is a weapon. When swinging it you have to be ready for the consequences. Faltering dooms you before you fight.”

“In other words,” she whispered, “you have to be ready to… kill?”

“Well,” Ares simply stretched his arms. “This is admittedly not at all a pretty topic, and in all honesty if only I could deny answering in affirmative,” his voice was apologetic this time. “You can try, but the problem with my environment is that people who came at me never considered that as an option. If you are not even sure of what to do, what about the pers—client you need to shield? If I falter before fighting, I'm already dead.”

“I… see,” her mere response came out because she did not know what else to say. “… From the hearsay I gathered so far, bar-goers said you usually commanded your enemies to flee before you engaged them. Is that why?”

“... Yes.” He made the same gesture and tone as prior, back then when he cut in. “Fighting people who already lost their will to fight is slaughter."

“Still, it does not feel fair to me,” Lene pressed on. “It will still mean that I can attack you as like.”

“You will not hurt me,” Ares replied. “And this is where it’s fair. It is not about being stronger than you or being the better swordsman here. As I train you, I am also training myself. Or rather, you are training me in a way.”

“No way,” she stared in disbelief.

“Yes way,” he chuckled, mimicking her tone but she looked too surprised to even respond to it. “So you did twenty-five swings, yes? Then try striking me off guard. The next chance, I’d like you to try making thirty-five. Then try striking me off guard again. Make the next after forty, then fifty… after that, stop. And you can begin again, probably starting at thirty.”

“Stop?”

“You just started. We want your body to get used to it, and a rest day in between can relieve your muscles. That is why I’d like you to stop at twenty-five. You just recovered and you would be dancing again, right?” he stated, with the matter-of-factly demeanor she was used to hearing these months. She hated to admit, but despite his unkind approach—some would say, curt and standoffish—his arguments were usually too reasonable to be countered.

“Some strong men I overheard said they’d drill a hundred each day and no less.”

“Where are these strong men?” Ares’ eyes glinted for a moment. “And sure, perhaps they would. But if that’s the kind of advice they’d give to a rookie, then... bad advice. A hundred regardless of the situation sounds like the fastest way to destroy yourself to me. We are building strength here, what we aim is getting your body to get used to the drill. I have a name to call a person who insists training when he should be sleeping—foolish.”

_Ah…_

“And about the fairness in regards to our training?”

“Get back at me first,” the Black Knight smirked again. “As I said before, nothing is unfair to me in this matter. You seem to be pretty insistent.”

“You seem to be pretty insistent at not telling,” Lene countered.

“How do you know? You haven’t attacked me yet.”

“Hnnn. Ares!”

“Yeah?”

He barely settled his breathing when he caught a shadow approaching him. _An object,_ he thought. It lunged at him, nimble and unexpected from where his left side rested. His reflex kicked in because he swiftly grabbed Mystletainn which by then had been lain idly just beside his right shoulder. Flashes of light reflected on the strange object as his sheathed blade collided with it. Just then his mind registered what it was. _A sword,_ he thought again, squinting his eyes a bit because the light reflections were pretty close to his eyes that they were almost blinding. _And that means…_

Then he found her. Crouching within arm-length beside him, her hands tightly gripped on her sword handle. She was not facing him directly; if anything it almost like she was too anxious to. Not only her head tilted, but he noticed her eyes were closed.

Just then he felt guilty. Suddenly he found himself questioning his decision—no, not about training her, but his urging her to strike him. _Perhaps too soon,_ he contemplated again. He recalled her disdain of fighting or spilling blood—and he wanted to cynically chastise himself for that, because, what kind of a _normal_ human being would take a delight in the sight of blood? His normalcy was not what most people envisioned regarding what was normal. After getting used to her smiles and indomitable spirit he began to wish that what he constituted being normal would not be her kind of normal.

... He could not bring himself to make her world so bleak like his, too. Yet how was one supposed to teach the art of war without a first-hand practice?

“Did I get you?” her question was faint and her hands were still tightly clutched to the sword.

“Don’t you want to know?”

“What do you…” out of reflex she opened her eyes and turned at him. And only then she realized saw what happened. His sheathed blade had parried hers. _But of course,_ she thought again, feeling rather ridiculous even for asking. He was not even moving from his initial sitting position. And somewhere buried under layers of other words, she was sure there would be a term in case he countered, as she imagined him drawing Mystletainn to strike back just a breath away after holding out her strike. Or perhaps breaking her stance before it reached him.

“You need to see where your sword heads to.”

“So you said those things for, like…”

“Yes?”

“… Encouragement?”

 _Those eyes widen again,_ he noted, clearing his throat. “I was thinking of ‘bait’, but if it works, you do you,” he commented, trying to mask his surprise. He suavely changed the topic into training again, as if wanting to stop from being impressed rather than not wanting to argue with her if she contested. “You gripped your sword too tight. If I go here...“ he said, with Mystletainn clashing with her blade tip. As expected, the force of the collision impact affected her balance and she nearly found herself trip when he did that. “it won’t take much to bring the opponent down. Literally.”

 _The opponent?…_ “So that’s…”

“Normal. No matter how tough your opponent appears to be, if he is careless with his sword, then he is careless. A fighter’s carelessness makes a gambit. End of the story.”

“… And his life as well…?”

“Yes.” Somehow he wished she would not have completed his sentence like that.

“… And you mean that kind of mistake is not… specifically me—my mistake, I mean?”

“Yes,” he nodded simply. “Back then I taught you to make a stronger standing and fiercer swing by using your shoulder blades to generate power instead of the arms, right? Transfer that to the sword. Imagine if your sword is an extension of your arm. In other words, the sword needs to maintain a constant steadiness like how it feels at the handle or it will be easy to disarm you.”

“Sounds like I’m the only person who knows nothing about it,” she chuckled awkwardly. “I understand that I’m a beginner, but…”

“No,” he slightly twisted Mystletainn like playing with a parade stick. She could only stare when her sword easily tailed because it had moved in a twisting manner following Mystletainn’s movement. Only that the blade tip was now facing downward. “From there, we have more options. Disarm,” he gently kicked the collapsing sword out of her hand. “… Or render it useless.” Then he returned the sword into her hands, making the same move but this time went on with the twist to the point of forcing the sword to fall with its blade tip stabbing into the ground.

“And next? Do you withdraw, since the opponent lost the sword?” she could only stare at him in awe. He was always like that—no fancy tricks, pouncing his opponent straight to the point, befitting his demeanor.

“… Lene,” he eventually replied in a careful manner, “I do not retreat. I stop.”

“Ah! So this will be all, then?”

“No,” he shook his head again. “When I said stop, I meant after making sure that they are dead.”

“Wha—“ she swallowed, “continue?”

He paused. He looked at her as if there was something he wanted to convey, but ended up holding his words in throat. _Just when I told her I did not withdraw,_ he contemplated silently, again feeling odd in a good way that interacting with her always ended up surprising. “I can ruin your hand like this,” he twisted Mystletainn deeper just to demonstrate how his blade tip could scar the opponent right in the wrist or palm to hinder the opponent from getting the sword back. “Or, the gentler version, perhaps. Pay attention to my blade handle,” he commanded, maintaining the rotating position while she hurriedly followed where his eyes were.

“That’s…” she watched cautiously when Mystletainn rotated in the twist. He raised his blade handle, bringing it to her temple. _Not even the wind from that movement grazed my hair as he demonstrated that on me,_ she pondered, watching him withdrawing Mystletainn from her face.

“Paralyzing,” he replied with the same indifferent manner. “One more. With your eyes open.”

“Oh, you,” she acted annoyed, bringing down her sword over his head.

“Here I can do this,” he crossed his wrists, catching her arms which bore the sword. “... Seizing you again in a similar manner from what I first showed you, for example," he went on, pushing her into an awkward position now that his grasp locked her arms, forcing her sword to point sideways.

“And then I fall,” she replied, tumbling. Yet she let him do all the moves.

“Yeah,” he responded, holding her by the shoulders to keep her still. “You are crouching. If your legs are not firmly planted on the ground, I would have—“ he made a kicking gesture to convey that he would be swiping her feet off the ground right away. “And the easiest way would be just catching you off guard when you were half-way making the second thrust. And since I’m still holding my sword, jabbing another person’s face is conveniently more damaging because of the blade handle in my grasp. For example—“

“Not so fast,” she laughed, lightly yanking his mullet again when he purposefully made a slow gesture to demonstrate a punch. Yet inside she could not help but wondering that had she been a real enemy, for sure he would have broken her nose as he spoke. Still, there was something which felt just… right through interaction over interaction, and…

“That’s the spirit,” he smiled faintly to accompany her laughter. “But if you have a sword with you, use it. Do more damage. Make a thrust at me.”

“What if I injure you?”

“Don’t wounds heal?” he commented dismissively. He moved her sword-wielding arm, which still rested idly while she contemplated to do what he asked.

“No—“

“Yes, they do,” he stretched her sword-wielding arm straight to his chest. “So, there is this fatal strike coming. The most basic reaction you can expect to naturally kick in is dodging to the side, right?” he swerved his shoulder slightly so her sword stabbed into the tree he was leaning on. When he saw her nodding, he continued. “But what if it was a close contact in a confined space? Suppose you got me like this. There is a tree behind me, blocking me to dodge,” bringing her sword at him again, he motioned the weapon to pierce through. However…

“No!!”

He stopped, stunned where he was. Her tone was loud—louder than usual, and she looked visibly disturbed shouting it. The sword helplessly fell to the ground as her grip lost a will to move. “Something the matter?” he asked when his female companion did not say anything after that. She looked like she was in utter disbelief—if not a bit shaken. “Lene?” he asked again, gently picking up the sword she dropped and returned it to her.

“I… uh—“ she merely took her sword back, lifting her face to meet his gaze. Serious concern reflected in her distressed eyes, yet even until what seemed to be a standoff she could not force even a word to speak to him. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Unexpectedly her conceding demeanor did not please him. He opened his mouth, dying to press on while his expression turned bewildered.

“Yeah. Since it is nothing, will you excuse me for now?” she turned her back and began to move away, and he had no other choice than letting her be. As curiosity loomed, he found himself dismayed… and frustrated. He was about to call for her, but wisely cancelled the decision, horrified by the idea of forcing her to stay. What if he was the very annoying asshole she wanted to evade for now?

 _… Oh shit, I **am** that asshole, _Ares ruffled his fringes in distress.

“Oi, Black Knight!”

 _Sweet Hezul,_ his restless thought quickly turned into a silent cuss when he saw a group of mercenaries arriving at the slope. They traced the soil beneath and began making their way to where he stood, carrying various things with them. He could hear their giddy laughter roaring when they approached closer. “What?”

“No need to glare, you already look like shit,” the first mercenary grinned as he dumped a pile of laundry at his feet. “See, Chief, even his face spells a fuck you. And it’s barely nine.”

“Right,” Ares sourly responded. “You'd rather I spell it with my knuckles then?”

“Easy there, Ares.”

“… Chief,” Ares relented when Javarro’s commanding presence strolled in. His sudden arrival and muscular figure alone managed to douse the Black Knight’s peevishness, and the latter did not know whether he had to be thankful or annoyed because of that. “You’re back.”

“Ha! Heard you kept assholes at bay while I was gone. With it, I slept soundly,” the Chief slapped his back enthusiastically. “I heard what you did with the textile bandits. Those were remnants who tried to ambush our client’s workers’ caravan in Melgen.”

“Seems so based on what I gathered around,” not knowing how else to respond, he simply nodded as his eyes began to scan for Lene’s whereabouts.

“Then where is the payment?”

 _Why now—darn it._ “None, Javarro. I mean, there was, but..."

“Not for you, but that dancer girl, is that it?”

“… Yeah,” he deferred again. Boy, he hated it. He hated the feel of being paraded before his comrades—or being made to feel so small as a little boy again who got berated and scrutinized under public eye. “Because they did not hire me and I simply found out about it later. If anything, it was her who tried to save their lives. Surely you can’t expect her to take down eight assholes by herself.” _And yet there she is, running away from one… sweet Hezul, I am indeed the extra asshole,_ he thought, but kept it to himself.

“Of course, because I would only expect you did!”

“... What?”

“Why are you making that face?” Javarro countered, studying the Black Knight from head to toe. Eyes to eyes, only to the grim discomfort of the latter even more.

Ares started to feel uneasy. Javarro hardly ever showed any sympathy— _for the lack of gentler word,_ _actually,_ he scoffed—for his liaison with the dancer or any woman he engaged in human interaction other than pretense to bedroom business… not that he took pleasure in such activities deliberately though. He sneered. The corner of his mouth twitched as the word _liaison_ formed in his mind—now that she wanted him to leave her alone, could he even call her a friend? “Well, they thanked me profusely, if that’s what you mean,” he tested the water, still unsure how to react. “They said I could drop by as like. Come on. I made them leave Darna. Nobody shall contest your position here and their boss will never forget.”

“Nobody but you. Isn’t it nice to play saving a damsel in distress once in a while, Ares?”

“Chief,” his voice was _cold_ this time. “You cannot play mercenary again if you don’t have potential clients to work for—which would be possible, had they robbed everyone and probably murdered them while they were at it.” Uncontrollably, his tone dropped even lower to the point as if he was close to barking at Javarro. “… And I was not playing. She was in danger. Blatant blade-tip danger.”

“You know what I said about having your emotion at the table as you engaged with women,” Javarro scoffed again. “Dull blade ends a man’s prime time. You are supposed to be a mercenary.”

“Am I not right now?” Ares held his breath again, feeling the urge to fight out of a sudden. “And she hardly hinders me. If fucker here makes human food, perhaps I’ll linger around longer instead of thanking the damsel for her cooking!” his eyes chastised the chirping comrade.

“Human food? Ares—godfuckingdangit.”

“See Chief, I told you he’s in a bad mood after arguing with his girlfriend,” the chirping comrade grinned again, splashing the Black Knight with laundry water.

“She is not my girlfriend, sorry to disappoint you,” Ares calmly patted Mystletainn which securely rested neatly to his belt. “As for dullness—I can flay him for you anytime."

“Well, fuck,” the chirping mercenary shuddered and began doing his laundry instead.

“I hope you know what you are doing. Because—well, bring me a young man who is not foolish, I guarantee you will not find one even if you shit your own pants doing that,” Javarro muttered again, not-so-friendly slapping an envelope against his palm.

“Now you sound exactly like her,” Ares could not resist.

“… Feh. You better watch out for yourself there, boy. Say whatever the fuck you want about my so-called advice, but I have lived long enough to see the things you probably have not,” Javarro sneered. “Now let’s get back to business. Someone wants you to fight on behalf of him. Details inside. Apparently there is a family feud and who-the-fuck-cares-anyway which left the client’s father nearly died. It’s insane, I have to say. Old rich families, former friends turned enemies until the other side’s strongman decided to take action. I’ve bargained the best price and the son is willing to sell a kidney just to have his father’s grudge avenged.”

_Former friends turned enemies and harmed each other? … Father… Lord Sigurd…_

“Sounds like this envelope needs no further reading,” Ares made a dominating gesture, squeezing the envelope into a paper ball and dumped it into the chirping mercenary’s _pants_ , in a meaningful deliberate manner.

“Black Knight, I swear—what the fuck—“

“Saving humanity,” he merely cocked an eyebrow.

“Get a fucking hold of yourself,” Javarro swore again, lightly slapping the Black Knight. “That’s just one woman, damn it. Just do your fucking job. Fuck, my head feels spinning.”

“It will be much lighter if you take more sleep after camel-drinking beer, especially since it’s just one woman as you said,” Ares smirked. “And of course I will. A job paid is a job done.”

Javarro swore again before retreating to the upper ground, disgruntled. From where he stood Ares could hear the Chief asking for breakfast—and he had to suppress sincere laughter when he could hear Javarro muttering. “Prince Blonde there is right, though. Why aren’t we having real food like real human we are, you horses?! Ahhh, my head. Curses.”

And then he exhaled. True that in the beginning Javarro, like the others, merely grinned when they saw him chatting her up. However Javarro hardly batted an eye with what he chose to do or not to do in his free time so far, and suddenly annoyance surged again as he wondered why people were suddenly interested in his personal relationship. Why did the Chief have to be concerned of her all of a sudden?

he stopped, feeling confused when he asked himself why he was bothered when he sensed the other mercenaries had insulted her.

His comrades’ reaction about his acquaintanceship with the dancer was even wilder. “The Black Knight hit the jackpot,” his comrades then would say as they patted him on the shoulders, telling him how the dancer was “Feisty!” as one said, “A renowned man-eater, don’t you know?” another echoed, “No no, _man-hater,_ ” third mercenary chuckled as he chugged on his beer.

Strangely, he did not like it. He did not like to be made like a champion just for striking an amiable chit-chat with her, and at the same time he was utterly confused when they made some gestures—which, for the first time ever since, triggered his awareness how vulgar if not gross they were, and he was only glad Lene—or any other girl, actually—was not around to see it. And even much more to his surprise, he was actually embarrassed by those actions. Even _if_ he and Lene had done some private things together, the way his comrades phrased it like a conquest bounty totally unsettled him, and he found himself wanting to punch them because of those reactions.

“What is your secret?” one of them would ask, his fingers made those unsavory motions.

“Something happened to your fingers?” he then would spare the mercenary a very _friendly_ laughter while his voice dropped cold again. “Let me help. If they break, I suppose they won’t move anymore.”

“I’m only helping you here, bastard,” his comrade cussed. “She’s pretty, but her temper is volcanic and that beautiful mouth can curse you out worse than a sailor can.”

“Considering you kindly told her your unwanted creative opinion regarding her breasts and nearly touch them, I’m surprised she did not return you here in a body bag,” Ares cocked an eyebrow. “Besides—seriously, breasts as an ice breaker? What are you, a baby?”

“Well, fuck me then, I guess,” the mercenary retreated in dismay.

“Oh come now, don’t sulk. You know it’s not true because as if anyone would,” Ares put up the most dominating alpha demeanor he could muster on purpose, sending the mercenary off with his thundering voice. So, nobody teased him _as much_ about it until now—well, until JAvarro brought it up again, which was seen as an approval by the others, apparently.

“See, look at her and her pretty little steps there going to the upstream,” the mercenary who teased him about his bad mood was rinsing his laundry. “What is she doing? Dancing?”

“Why should _you_ care? I don’t even care.”

“Black Knight, you fucker,” muttered the mercenary, again splashing him with laundry water. “So I take that lady is not yours _,_ then? You are usually a straightforward asshole. Hold on, from here I can see her—what, practicing? … Girl does have a sword.”

“Well, she is her own person and not my property is what I’m saying,” Ares replied tenderly… too venomous to be _that_ tender. “However this one is, though,” he casually gestured to Mystletainn. “Moving on, yes. She is training with me.”

“YOU taught her to wield a sword?!”

“Yeah?” Ares simply shrugged. He almost wanted to grin like an asshole when the mercenary’s expression changed… well, way too extremely, if compared from prior.

“You bastard _,_ ” the mercenary scowled, and the Black Knight merely chuckled devilishly as he found himself being shoved face-first to the ground. 

* * *

 

Lene huffed. And swung. Huffed. Swung. Huffed. Swung. And she lost count. She was puffing mad—if not red-disappointed. “Stupid Ares!” she shouted at the river, getting more and more eager swinging her sword, feeling how power increased each time a strike was launched. “Why—“ huffed; “—does he—“ swung; “—have to be—“ huffed; “—so—“ swung; “—clueless!!”

Lene breathed heavily, throwing her exhausted self to sit over a bed of grass. _Crap,_ she muttered under her breath, remembering how Ares had asked her to just stop at twenty-five swings for today's starter. And how many more did she make after they parted ways? … She could not recall. She only knew that she was suddenly so tired and sweaty, with the sun getting higher and… shiny.

 _Just like his stupid hair color,_ she contemplated, throwing a stone into the river.

And then she landed face-first on the grass.

 _I called him stupid_ , Lene picked herself up, feeling so bitter since it was she who fell like that. She recalled something Ares said about how “the effect of physical activities would kick in later”, and being a dancer she was aware of the “your joints stage a coup only after you are done” phenomenon. She hated that it happened here, however. _And Ares suuuure would feel victorious about it, right_ —she thought again, dragging herself to the river, imagining him to pull a beautiful _I told you so!_ on her and she would not be able to contest that since she had no ammunition to begin with.

Lene took her shoes off, feeling the water blissfully cooling her feet. _So peaceful,_ she contemplated, _and that clueless trapezoid bread loaf called Ares just told me to—to…_

“… Launch strikes as if I have to try to kill him,” she grumbled, yet her own tone surprised her. As her feet kicked back and forth creating small waves in the water, sudden realization struck her—how that clueless trapezoid bread loaf she called Ares actually managed to make her overcome some things. Some things… some things she only realized after engrossing herself in sword-training with him. _I hate conflicts, I hate to see blood spilling,_ she once had told him. When he came with a blood-stained shirt, she felt so uneasy. But never once did Ares make one single condescending comment about it, while other mercenaries might display it like a war trophy and mutter a thing or two about how delicate girls were, as if it was funny not to feel excited when seeing that. 

“… There is indeed… something I need to say,” Lene voiced out her contemplation as she laid down on the grass again. The peaceful solitude, the cooling river with her feet feeling fresh in the water, her favorite dress—she felt shy again for even realizing she had dug into her closet to fetch the dress when she resolved to meet him by kidnapping him off the market today.

 _Don’t you have… breeches? Pants? Or you know, a cavalry suit_ —He had asked her hesitantly when she dragged him to the river to train.  _That dress looks—well, too proper to get dirty if we are to step up the training,_ he added after averting his eyes for godknowswhat-reason.

 _Nooo, they are so ugly,_ she responded, and sincerely burst into laughter when Ares reflexively scanned his body to pay attention to his own pants, feeling self-conscious out of reflex. _Don’t you have anything that is not black there?_

 _I—I don’t think you’ll be interested in my answer,_ he stuttered answering her.

 _OH,_ she responded then.  _Loincloths!!_

 _You—_ his face went pale… seriously pale.

 _Joking, joking!—_ she rubbed his arm in a comforting manner… in jest. _Wait, so your loincloths are colorful? You are not actually THAT unfashionable or art-blind?_

_Lene._

_Y-yes. Yes, I heard you_ —she gulped when the legendary death stare found its target. Yet somehow all words that had lingered in her mind vanished when Ares attempted to drill her about lethally striking and counter-striking an opponent.

“It’s so aggravating…” she whispered to herself. And then she had to concede. Or rather, her pride had to concede to her inner voice and reflections. She barely could even swing a blade before meeting him, and now she knew how to disarm and escape an enemy. She found herself building some strength as her shoulders became more powerful, which helped when her dances required active movements or using props. Steadier standing posture, firmer legs—those helped when she had to be creatively acrobatic on stage, with her balance maintained.

… But more importantly…

“Lene, watch out!”

“What?” she pulled herself up out of reflex. Her feet awkwardly stepped on a stone inside the river, and she grimaced when something slippery swayed around her feet. “Wha—!!”

“Hold on there. … Wait—“

“Ares, you are going to fa...~~~aaaall!”

_SPLASH._

“Ohhh,” she sighed. That was the loudest—if not the most embarrassing squeal she ever let out. Not only her own scream that made her less proud of herself, but the predicament she was in. She took off her ribbon, letting her hair loose while water dripped down over her body. Her dress was soaking wet, and in frustration she rubbed her nose as well as forehead after bumping into Ares’ shoulder armor head-first.

“I…” Ares could only mutter in helpless bewilderment. He was also in the river, all soaking and wet from head to toe. His golden locks draped silkily over his shoulders. With the sun rays grazing over his head, he gave the impression of a classical painting...

“Why?” Lene spoke, sighing again and again while attempting to squeeze the water out of her dress by twisting her skirt. “What the hell are you thinking—what if you… drowned?!”

“And what if you did?”

“Did I look like drowning? Everything was fine until you surprised me!”

“Fine? You call that fine? You lay on the grass with almost half of your body in the river, how am I not thinking of a dead body when I saw you?!”

“Dead body? Good gracious gods. Is that the only thing you can think of?! Fighting... and something bloody!”

He stopped as if she just slapped him. “… You are right. I’m sorry...” his tone was yielding if not so passive that she immediately regretted yelling that at him. But he already got up, yanking his cape and undid his armor as he dragged himself back to the land.

She watched him dumping all the things he carried before, and from where he was Ares had just lay his cape on a tree branch to dry it. Soft gasp escaped her lips as she started realizing something—what if it was the first thing crossed his mind exactly because that was the typical view he was just so used seeing? What if he was actually worried since she left first? Considering she left him hanging with her answer, considering this was the first time for them to get back training together after her legs had ached badly. And to think that what he did first was checking if her legs were good enough to proceed with the training—

“Hrrrgh,” Ares growled a bit, utterly annoyed by his own conduct as he tossed his armor at his feet. His hand moved to swiftly unbutton his black vest and overdress, revealing a white cotton undershirt he was wearing. His other hand moved to toss his mullet over his shoulders, ruffling his fringes and then his face to wash off the water there, and…

Lene stood dumbfounded in the river. _Aha, fucking **white** shirt!_—she was almost gleeful when she took a gracious peek on him. But white _undershirt_ meant the water only made his muscle lines coyly visible. Before realizing it she swallowed, feeling utterly _defeated_ out of a sudden. Why did she get to see this? Why the heck did that bread loaf suddenly have to wear a white shirt?!—Or so she thought, because perhaps that old adage about being careful of what to wish came true because it did not take long for Ares to pull that white shirt off.

“Ah, crap,” Ares cussed softly, finding his undershirt was torn on the sides. He had jumped on her, thinking she was collapsing. Yet she reflexively held back her arm when he tried to pull her. Right when she was about to remind him that there was something slippery in the water, he slipped, not-so-gracefully falling into the river with her arm still intertwining with his. Nobody would have to ask what he felt because his reddened face said what his tongue could not. When coughing out the water he accidentally made her drink, that unidentified slippery object audaciously swam around them.

“So it was a… fish,” Lene muttered.

“It… appears to be so,” with the same dumb tone Ares joined in, and they reflexively looked at each other before she scoffed, folding her arms as she turned her back from him. And he could only surrender to the treatment.

Meanwhile Lene totally stopped. Blessing in disguise—she heard of that phrase, but she was not sure if it was applicable for what she was having right now. If anything, she felt so shy to even _dare_ thinking like that. Ares had stripped out of his blouse. He was now turning at her, slowly tracing the grass. “Um…” she wanted to say something… _anything,_ if necessary, but she simply could not.

“Can you climb back up here, or should I… carry you?”

“No, no need, I can do that! I CAN do that!!” she shouted at his face, and quickly covered her mouth before making a retreating manner. _The heck is happening,_ cussing herself even further she could not deny the fact that the Black Knight was practically standing shirtless, bare-chested to the waist in front of her. And sure from down here the view was clear—either it was about his sturdy-looking stomach, his strong arms which sported some muscles if she paid attention, his— _what was that again, birth mark?_ —symbol on one of his upper shoulders. The collarbone, the wide shoulders, let alone the water which dripped all over his body— _shirtless body,_ she somehow had to remind herself _again,_ or his silky drenched golden mane which made him look rather dangerous as if he just came out of a bloody battlefield.

_... Dangerous, but... alluring somehow..._

“… Alright. Eh—“ he awkwardly extended an arm for her to reach, and he had to avert his gaze when her figure came closer. White clothes would make a nice choice under a scorching sun, but no matter how hard he tried he could not just dissipate the image he just saw. The soaking attire formed a body-hugging shade, giving him a sneak-peek of her curves and shapes. He was not even complaining—if someone would just chain him down to force the confession out of him—but at the same time what his eyes were treated with made him feel shyly guarded and aware of their situation. And he swore he’d let his honor rein his body even if she was not really aware of what had become of her.

Lene took Ares’ arm, still unsure what to do—although, _thankfully, not pressing my body against his naked chest,_ she thought, and for a decisive moment she had to admit she kind of regretted turning down his offer—

Her cheeks felt burning then.

“Are you—uh, are you alright? Let me see.”

It had been too late for Lene to hide her face or do something… anything she could try so that he did not see her blushing visage. In a nearly surrendering-like demeanor she lifted her chin a bit so he could examine her nose and forehead, all the while silently praying he was not aware that she took her time looking at his damp hair or how it framed his face. Or the way his bare muscles contracted, if not the way his upper body looked without any string to confine it.  “It’s just… a bump,” she whispered eventually.

“Still, your face may get bruised,” he responded, voice equally faint. “… So much for all these talks about not hurting you. Alas, the irony…”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to tell you earlier.”

“Go on,” he replied. “If you want to slap me, I'll be there as well.”

“… What?”

“Wait, that’s not what you meant?”

 She sighed. “Why are you always like this?!”

“Like… this?” he stared at her again, averting his eyes now that her predicament distracted him. _I’m going to castrate that asshole,_ he huffed to himself, recalling that stupid drinking night some time ago and the bathroom talk that one mercenary made about her curves.

“Exactly! That is exactly what I want you to know!”

“I’m sorry—“

“No, don’t apologize so easily like that—at least not until you hear me out!”

“… Alright.”

“Okay!” she inhaled. “Ares! I want you to know that you are actually inspiring!!” her voice barged in, akin to a loud noise that yanked one from their blissful slumber.

“… Excuse me?”

“Inspiring! Inspiring, I said!” she yelled at him, her hands firmly planted on her hips as the red shades on her cheeks started to turn darker. “There. There—you have it,” she added hesitantly. Her voice died down as she slammed her bottom over the grass, taking a sit with her back turned at him. Water drips fell to the ground as she began combing her hair.

“Hey—“

“Look, it’s wet,” Lene commented, holding the ribbon which secured her ponytail for him to see. And suddenly her shoulders began to shake a bit. “It’s—it’s your gift, right—“

“Glad that the gift is pleasant enough for you that I did not commit a crime by turning you into a fashion disaster then,” he chuckled in relief, but his laughter quickly disappeared when she looked so… troubled. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you… sniffling?”

“Because you keep doing that!!” she could not hold it any longer. All reservations being gone, her fists started weakly pounding on his chest. “You were thinking what I might like. Something that would not _embarrass_ me, is that it?! Just like the sword-training! You always put yourself last, not second anymore.”

“I…” he sat still, tongue-tied. All he could do was letting those light punches hammered him.

“I have been rather unfair to you, I suppose,” she grumbled, but her face did not convey anger more than it was of shyness if not sorrow. “You did not just teach me how to swing a sword—“

“Yes, I taught you to disarm as well—wait, that’s not what you mean?” he retracted when her face was puffy-red again, and she sighed in desperation.

“I… guess you are just… like that, huh?”

“Lene—“ Ares, still stupidly unaware of anything, flummoxed where he was.  “I don’t get it. First you did look like you were mad at me. And then you are sad. And now your eyes convey... laughter?”

“Of course, because you are so stupid!”

“I… see. I guess?”

“I once told you that I don’t like conflicts. I hate seeing the sight of blood. I hate it when people have to brandish swords against each other,” she whispered. “And it might have… stemmed from my childhood. I grew up in an orphanage. I have seen abandoned, impoverished children wherever I went—well, considering I am one myself,” she forced a dry chuckle.

“Lene…”

“My parents are nowhere to be found. Those kids’ parents—well, some were found… dead or only by limbs. If you recall what they said about all these conflicts with subjugated territories and all that. Why do people have to kill each other? I understand that it happens, but perhaps I'll never... truly accept it."

“No,” he reflexively touched her arm. “You don’t have to continue if it’s hard for you.”

“What I… wanted to tell you is this—“ she averted her eyes when he did that. “Because of the things I witnessed growing up, because of the atrocities around me, I guess I… am used to backpedal when I sensed the situation would not benefit me. Or you know, retreating; withdrawing like a coward if you would prefer that as well.”

“… Have I ever made you feel that way?”

“No,” she shook her head. “You are too nice for that… exactly why.”

“I still don’t follow you.”

“Training with you. Swinging the sword, moving my own body to actually strike and parry…” she inhaled. “Kind of… made me feel hopeful somehow. That I can confront life and hit it where it hurts instead of cowering, retreating to a corner and pretend nothing happened. It’s like—you made me courageous without even realizing about it, and I have to thank you for that. I’ve gotten used to ignore things like they did not exist because—because it is easier. I’m done apologizing for my existence and I don’t… want to be hurt anymore. I thought if I just roll with it, then .... but training with you made me brave enough to take on the world instead of hiding.”

“… Is that so?”

“Now you are laughing. If I sounded ridiculous to you, just say so,” she grumbled.

“Me, giving you the courage you need?” Ares stopped chuckling, and only then she realized his laughter contained faint irony—if not bitterness in it. “If anything, it was you who inspired me.”

“How come? I mean—I gave you inspiration?”

“Now you talked like me,” he snickered. “And yes. Have you known me being a liar, Lene?”

“Well, you made me almost believe you don’t wear other colors,” she grinned, motioning to a pile of fabric dumped near them—his torn undershirt.

“Undershirts are undershirts. It’s out of permitted target area,” he took the bait. “How open-minded is that to declare a war on pants while doing sword training at the same time?”

“For someone who just went shirtless involuntarily, you talked a lot,” she huffed.

“For someone wet enough, you still criticize my clothes,” he deadpanned—not too long before quickly adding now that he realized his wording might have been... unwise. “I mean—“ he cleared his throat, “—I mean _you_ taught me courage.”

It was her turn to be surprised. “Me? I mean—how come? Hold on—is your blouse drying yet? Are you cold?”

“This,” he glanced where she had touched out of reflex. “If anything, you made me dare enough to see that not all closeness… touches—exist just to hurt me.”

_… Eh…?_

“It’s been too long,” his eyes turned pensive at the moment, recalling a past that was lost, and a realm existing in a dream. “I nearly forgot what it was like to be human. To sit unguarded in the presence of another. To let others lay a hand on me. To let you touch me—no, really, I mean—I don’t know how to put it eloquently, but I don’t see nothing but bravery when a woman decides to keep on living against all odds. And because of that in a way I feel that what you showed me just… resonated with my childhood. I looked back to see traces of survival efforts and stories. I did not really recall when, but you approached me sincerely, without reservation others understandably put up with me. So…”

“… So?”

Her voice was so meek as if it was fleeting from another world. “… So I can only think how bold it is to make a statement just by existing alone. I got brave enough to see colors, to feel tastes—you held your ground and kept telling me ‘again!’ each time I corrected your moves or parried your strikes. So I guess…” he shrugged with a smile with his reply being so, so tender to rival the softness she exposed to him.

“Thank… you, then?”

“No, thank _you,_ ” he chuckled again, ignoring her sheepish expression on purpose. “And that is what I wanted to say when I said the training was fair as it was then. You made me reconsider things I barely cared enough before, and that’s how the challenge lies with me. It is my responsibility to respond to your moves and progresses properly. Remember when I told you I did not retreat because I only stopped after my enemy was dead?”

She gave a small nod.

“As I train you,” his eyes lingered on Mystletainn, “I learn how to preserve life.”

“… That’s…”

“I started differentiating a combative and non-combative situation. Before this happened, if you accost me from behind I might have slashed without thinking. I mean… the night I encountered you for the first time in that alley—the first thing I did when I heard your complain about the mud was assessing whether or not I should wait or strike first. Preventive strikes—whatever you'd call it. No matter how justified they are. And yet—“ he coughed again. And just like prior he received another reflexive touch before she withdrew awkwardly. “... As our blades clashed it wasn’t just the reflexes I learned to control."

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered. “That is the core of what I longed to tell you today. I do not want you to just… accept everything simply because it is you. I don’t want you to get used to pain, Ares. This sounds ridiculous because you are a paid sword, but…”

“Exactly that. Through trusting you, I began trusting myself enough to let _me_ parrying you.”

Silence reigned over them as they awkwardly stared at each other. The sun kept shining brightly above them, and after a while she broke the silence. “W-well, if that’s the case…”

“Aren’t _you_ cold?” he got up to walk where he had draped his cape. Pausing for a while as if weighing in his options, he took the cape and handed it to her. “It was not as wet as before. If you keep wearing drenched clothes like that you might get sick.”

“And you?”

“I can just go around like this for a while,” he scratched his head, feeling rather awkward. “Go on. … I won’t look, I promise. Just tell me when you are about to change so I can, uh—give you the private space you need. ... Perhaps I should grill that fish for our breakfast too while we are at it.”

“… No. Let’s preserve life for now as you like it,” she smiled after a while. “After all, if not because of that courageous warrior we would not have this conversation.”

“Understood,” he returned the smile and steered his feet somewhere else by the time she began retreating behind a group of lush bushes to change.

The sun was shining brightly when she was done, and he found his hair nearly dried completely. She waved her arm, calling his name, and it took a while for him to approach to where she was. _He really meant it when he said he would not look,_ she mused, thinking he might as well disappear at the other corner of the earth at this point because there truly was a pretty major distance between where he emerged and their initial location. “Ares! I’m done! How do I look?”

He was stunned—feeling humorous and pretty awed at the same time. She did not just drape his cape over her body and secure it to hold it as a makeshift clothing. Rather than that she had folded his cape in a certain way that as if she was making a gown out of it. One end diagonally crossed her shoulders, tied into a knot with another while the rest part of the cape hugged her figure in a similar manner of clothes worn by a civilization of the ancient—famous for their laurel crowns and folded fabrics to clothe their people sans needles. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he responded, a bit gleeful to see how seamless his clothing article had drowned her body.

“I wasn’t either!” she admitted, “but then I got creative.” She laughed again, cheekily showing him how the ribbon was now used to hold the folding securely.

“So that’s how you look like when you wear your hair loose. And wearing black.”

“So that’s how you look like when you are wearing white. And shirtless.”

“What?”

“What?” she countered, hoping her indifferent—if not jesting tone worked well enough to hide her throbbing heartbeats— _somehow,_ she cussed herself silently, as Ares was back again being the stupid bread loaf that was Ares.

They walked together to their initial training location—by the river, close to the downstream. Her face was inconsolably red when a mercenary caught the sight of them—and reflexively shouted, “oi, Black Knight! I-is that _your_ cape?!”

“Gods, I want to die,” she brought her hands to her face. It was not that she had been utterly calm about this, but what the mercenary just shouted was too honest and too real to ignore.

“Don’t. Let him volunteer first,” Ares simply smirked as he turned at his comrade. “Of course it is. You are here _alone?_ ”

“Asshole, why the fuck are you such a lucky bastard?” the mercenary threw his laundry bucket at him, to which the Black Knight simply dodged as his tender laughter colored their surroundings.

“They will tease you relentlessly for that, I’m sure. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” Lene muttered.

“I’m sure. But it’s not like he is wrong.”

“H-huh?”

“Well, I've got a mission for today. I guess I can trust the cape in your care until I’m back and paid,” he cleared his throat… again.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she replied. “Since you are in the preserving life mood today, I can suggest you something.”

“Bring it on.”

“What if you…” she paused a bit before proceeding, “take care of your life as well? And—“

He watched her weaving each word and his expression softened. “I understand. After all, I still need to return to retrieve that from you,” he pointed at the cape.

“Yes!” her cheerful expression welcomed him at an instant as soon as he said that.

“Forewarning though, I don’t expect extra decoration _or color_ by the time I get to retrieve it.”

“Awww, how could you be so mean to me like that?”

“Don’t ‘awww’. Suspicious.”

“Then don’t glare! Suspicious.”

“… So what should I do then?”

“I don’t know. Keep that shirtless-ness more often, perhaps?”

“… What?”

“What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the idea for this prompt just... popped out in my mind like that. Rule A: warfare. Rule B: also warfare. Result: swords ... OTL
> 
> And yeah, I was thinking Lene wears his cape toga-style. Last but not least, I really cannot thank you enough for following my story, commenting, and for your readership in general. I was not even expecting that this would attract readers, but here we are, thank you so much (again)!
> 
> And hope you like a shirtless Ares. Sue me, #YOLO.
> 
> (Actually don't, I don't have the money u_u lololol).


	13. You

It was already a pretty unusual morning to wake up to.

His eyes opened to the bright sun rays peeking into the windows of the room he occupied, and he semi-forced dragging himself to get up. Some days he did not want to get up. Some days he saw things in his dreams, which would only leave him with a sensation of mellowness when he woke up later. Among those days would be the better days of realm long gone—the warm feeling of being cradled like a precious treasure box, his back pressed against a warm, wider, tougher chest on a sunny day, on top of horse back as they sailed a field of green meadows. If not that, then of gentle laughter surrounding him, his mother’s graceful figure swaying back and forth as her body was pressed against his father’s tall, slender built while his golden mane brushed against her temples when they took on each other one quiet night in the Lionheart’s silent study.

Some other days, it felt like climaxing scene of a tragedy. The horse which carried him forward suffered a wound like he did, and he knew nothing else to go except to press forward; when angry shouts followed him from behind and he had to frequently race death in exchange of glistening silver coins. When his mind could picture a more-modest study with a kind old man he had to call grandfather, but seconds later burning arrows simultaneously torched the calm manor with the old man pushing his mother and locked the doors behind her before it was too late. He was also cradled at that time, but unlike the previous one where he was secure and protected, this time the chest in which his back was pressed against was soft and trembling, and the hands which held him felt like collapsing. There was no horse because he did not know how long his mother maintained to carry him that way until they could take a breath while everything around them turned into ashes and rubble. Some nights he found himself replaying the same scene over and over again, and he would always wake up, sweaty, melancholic, and trembling before he could finish conveying the last _I love you_ to a mother who exhaled and never inhaled again.

That day his night had been dreamless, and in all honesty he preferred that over the tragedy sequences.

He heard footsteps coming closer, and by the time the first sounds rang his ears, he closed his eyes.

_Calculate. How many more steps until they reach you. How many minutes you have to steal a first strike, how many people are out there waiting for you. How many fatal strikes you can land at once, and how many people you can take down with them. Enclosed area; perhaps you can utilize the window in case you need to withdraw and lure them out. If you break it from this floor and jump perhaps you can escape without breaking a bone. Calculate, calculate, calculate. Calculate—_

Those footsteps were coming.

Step step step.

… And they sounded closer.

Step. Step. Step.

His hand was not even finished buttoning his shirt when it hastily reached for Mystletainn.

 _Why stop?_ —He paused, sitting on the counter near his bed. Mystletainn was at his waist, facing downward in a diagonal battle-ready position. It was still tucked in the sheath but he knew he could draw it faster than lightning if needed be, and it would be the moment the intruders yanked his door.

There was no other movement heard from outside, and he thought it was nothing to feel weird about. He had been through this again and again, rehearsing the _what if_ scenarios as well as _how abouts_ again and again. He had to be versatile and adept to all kinds of situations and terrains. And based on his experience in the scenario of group ambush, a person would be waiting outside trying to locate if he was inside, if not _where._

He put an ear close to the door, holding his breath without making a sound. On the other side of the door the person seemed to exhale, and he only needed that split second as a cue to strike first. With that concluded, his hand reached for the door, roughly yanking it open until it bumped against the wall from its opposite side.

_Expose yourselves!_

But he only found a startled soft squeal by the time Mystletainn was half-drawn… that, and an object held up close to his face to block him.

_Crap._

“Lene,” he said, taking down his sword while his other hand ruffled his own hair. “… Wait. Lene?!”

“Yuuup~! Good morning, Ares!!” she simply shoved what she was holding at his face, with the typical smiles that stayed the same, cheerful mannerism that did not change. “I’m sorry for startling you! I was about to knock, but I thought again that you might be asleep!”

_I nearly slashed through you._

“No…” he was at loss of words. Oh but he tended to be. He would always be whenever she was involved.  Now that it was clear there was no danger lurking outside to get him, he put back Mystletainn to where it was before addressing her. “… Why are you here?”

“To return the cape you lent me?” Lene casually shoved the _thing_ she had been holding, closer to his face this time and Ares simply took it with a dumb, clueless expression on his face. “Don’t drop it!” the cheerful dancer quickly added. “There is something.”

“I thought we agreed on no extra décor,” Ares replied, setting the folded cape on his bed. “Lene, I’m sorry. It’s just…” he paused, finding a wooden box neatly concealed with his cape.

But she simply waved him off before he even got to finish that. “It’s alright. Besides, I know you will not hurt me.”

“Such confidence,” he remarked, although feeling tickled by her reaction.

“I know you will not when you see it is me,” she responded again, in an even more casual manner this time. “And on the way here I promised I’d stop joking about your loincloths…” she started giggling, “… if you stop glaring!” and with it, she yanked his mullet again.

“How did you find me?” Ares studied her again for a second.  The dancer was wearing what appeared like a short dress, paired with body-hugging tight pants which ends went to her ankles. She was covered in a cape, carrying a cloth bag with a long-something covered with thick cloth. He did not need to guess that the long-something was her sword. Still, it felt rather surreal for Ares to find her unguarded, unreserved standing at his door like this. First his sleep was dreamless. Then he was awoken to an unlikely guest he did not even expect.

“By asking around, of course!” her answer came out so light that Ares did not know what to make of it.

“… Asking around? Are you serious?”

“Yes. It was a bit annoying,” the dancer casually rested herself on _his bed_ , could not even be bothered with the concept of properly asking and whatever the supposed ladylike gesture was. … Supposedly.

“But why?!”

Lene looked up. His tone was a bit louder than usual, and as if realizing what he just did, the Black Knight made a subtle change in his body language to signal that he did not mean it.

“I was just thinking that you might… run into trouble,” he confessed.

“Well, let me see, trouble…” she pondered, her hand clasped her chin. “Ah, yes! That is why it’s annoying. I asked for Ares, and I had to clarify I meant the Black Knight before people caught up.”

“… That was… the trouble?”

“Yes! Goodness, if only they would just call you Ares like me. Are there many Areses around here? That is your name! They should learn to use it, and then say it even though you are not around.”

“I don’t know.”

“See, that is the point. You should lay claim on that name before some other Ares is making himself known,” she giggled again. “Why, Ares, you look brooding.”

 _This girl,_ Ares wanted to bring his palm onto his face again and again, and perhaps clasping his hands over her shoulders too while he was at it. How was he supposed to tell her that she was supposed to be aware of these things considering who he was? That her casually asking around to know where he slept—no, _spending the night,_ he thought cynically—was not… common? “And how did you find me?”

“Oh, the Chief was kind enough to drag me here,” Lene replied cheerfully, unperturbed by how concerned Ares was at this point. “He resumed sleeping after telling me which room you stayed in. But perhaps rather than that, I might have frustrated him enough that he had no choice but taking me.”

“At least Javarro found you,” Ares huffed. “You know, this is just… strange, even to me. I mean… Lene, when people looked for me, usually it would be either they wanted me to kill, or that they wanted to kill me, don’t you understand?”

“What is so strange with visiting friends to return whatever kind act they did you?” she countered, her hands were on her hips; her eyebrows dove down just how her body language would be each time she was pressed to argue with him.

“It could be dangerous,” he spelled it out, feeling odd still. Lene was not dumb; she was perceptive and quick to sense potential threat. Yet he had to lay it out bluntly like this?

“There would be no danger.”

“Still doesn’t make me feel any better because sounds like people don’t care about you.”

“Exactly. Those who care would not bother, and those who did not, would not matter,” she ticked him in the nose again, winking. “What would they say? Could be just something-something about me being your leg warmer this early.”

“And you are alright with that?”

“And you are not?”

“No,” he _glared_ at her this time. “I do mind those tongues. Why don’t you?”

“Because we both know it is not the case?” she cocked an eyebrow. “I came with your cape and your breakfast there if you like food with cheese. Which they won’t have,” her gaze turned mischievously satisfied. “And what business do they have with what we are doing behind this door?”

“… I guess,” he eventually smiled faintly, conceding. “But still. I might…”

“Might what? Dear Ares here is a cute cub, not a wolf,” she laughed again, gently patting his hair as her soft sigh bore witness to her adoration towards his beautiful golden mane.

“I was close to be one,” he murmured, gesturing to Mystletainn.

“But you did not,” she softly shook her head.

Few months earlier Ares might be close to breaking an arm for the sudden gesture and insolently caressing his hair like that. Now such intention was hardly ever thought of, although for the time being it was limited only to her—something he wanted to snicker about because it was as if she held this special pass nobody else ever did.

_But you did not._

Her words occupied his mind as he found himself merely nodding, getting his cape back and setting his supposed breakfast while enjoying her turn to be awkward when he cheerfully—well, as cheerful as an Ares could muster—countered her by saying she should be careful next time, because otherwise she might be catching him wearing nothing but his underwear under the blanket and he was merely trying to prevent a tragedy to befall humanity.

But between the shyly batting eyelashes and her hand yanking his mullet harder than usual, there was a soft murmur which blurted a reply. “… Next time?”

“Yes,” he affirmed before he had to look away himself.

* * *

 

The river glistened as it usually was each time they would come there in the morning. Silvery flowing strands blended with golden shades as the morning sun began to illuminate the world, and Ares had no idea why on Earth he would even follow her there. While the riverside itself had become their treasured meeting compound where he got to train her in combat, usually there would be some sort of prelude, if not an invitation or a mutual understanding that they would be spending their time there for such purpose.

But then again Ares realized he did not really have an answer to his whys when it came to Lene. He would just do, just like how his feet easily followed her footsteps by the time she told him she would be heading to the riverside after returning the cape.

His response to her goodbye easily turned into a suggestion of him sending her off. He could not resist a proud smirk when she innocently confessed that the other mercenaries opened the way for her to let through like she was a queen, and with that happened she was sure there would be no danger. And for the third instance in a short time he simply let her yank his mullet again when he refused to give an answer—she had asked why the mercenaries suddenly inquired whether he taught her to wield a sword, and when she had nothing but an affirmative reply to them, cold sweat broke and they stayed away so much as if they evaded touching her even if accidentally.

And as he answered all her questions… or rather, bulls-eye accusations, he easily found himself out of the mercenary compound. “That’s suspicious,” she remarked. A _what is?_ from him brought them descending the stairs of the pavilion where his room was. “What did you do?” she asked again, and the _why did you think I do anything?_ reply from him brought them closer to the front gate. “The more you act like that, the more suspicious you are,” she huffed, but paused when he chuckled because he was aware innocence would be something too expensive for him to buy even though he sold everything.

He could have returned inside now that Lene was practically out of the compound, but his legs paused eager to wait for her reply. Although part of him wondered why he would care at all if she did not deign him with a reply, another barged him like that hammering urge which kept saying _reply reply reply_ hoping such thought would eventually transcend to her.  

“I can’t picture you scheming,” she broke the silence between them and bluntly blurted it out. And he had to surrender in silence when she stuck his tongue at him. “Which means, you are innocent.”

“Innocence sounds loaded for a person who bathes in blood,” he sneered.

“Is that so? Then you must be unaware that wyverns love drinking wine.”

“… Do they?”

“See,” she laughed heartily. “Got you, Mr. Death Stare.”

“… Then you must be confusing innocence with gullibility,” he scoffed.

“Really? Then explain to me how this rich baron managed to buy off House Nordion’s sacred axe at the auction house. You should have seen how he paraded it around like a collectible artifact.”

“Sacred axe you said,” he muttered before wincing like he was in pain. “There is no such a thing because House Nordion’s prized weapon is a sword,” his reply came off in a begrudging manner. “How are you making me as an example with that being the case since it was the baron who was gullible?”

“Because there is no such thing as you said. I made up the story myself,” Lene flicked him in the nose. “See Ares, you are aware of things. So you are not actually gullible.”

 _Of course,_ he resisted the urge to sneer again. _And to think I drove some of those jewelries and artifacts to the pawn shops myself—_ “You need to make a more convincing story then,” he simply shrugged. “Choose something obscure that not many people know of, then I might fall into your trap.”

“Oh, Ares. You are digging it on your own as we speak.”

 _She knows_ _I am a descendant of House Nordion?!_ “Explain.”

“If I need something obscure, something so odd or unheard of that chances are not many people know of, then in general it has more chance to be true than it is not,” Lene cooed. “In other words, if I have to make up something so obscure yet so convincing to deceive you, that means… you are not actually easily deceived, aren’t you?”

 _... Oh. By Hezul._ “You are not supposed to be this nice,”  Ares muttered, feeling surreal for a second. It was not that he wanted to treat her like she was this strange object which continued to surprise him, but… she just did, and it made her such. “Because what if that… in turn, makes you—“

“Makes me what?”

 _Vulnerable. A victim. Like my father._ “Taken advantage of.”

“Well, sometimes I _have_ to be nice,” she simply shrugged. “Or some men won’t like it.”

“Then don’t be.”

“… Ares, you are growling.”

He paused for a bit. Did he? … Did he just growl like a lion just because she simply stated she had to put up her best smile and happy face to the undeserving; something he could not relate to, and even less likely would be forced to do. Yet it still boiled his blood imagining she had to do that many times. There was something similar to servitude in it, something which felt hitting too close to home. “… Well, I am the not-nice one here between us,” he replied in a scowling manner. “Then it’s decided. Be nice to them, but the moment they are being an ass to you, I will get _mean_ too.”

“You…”

“Now you are smiling,” Ares muttered awkwardly. “I must have said something stupid.”

“No,” the dancer simply shook her head. “You are so kind.”

“Now you are teasing me,” Ares grimaced although his eyes said otherwise.

“This one is teasing,” without hesitation Lene pinched both Ares’ cheeks as she let out a laughter. “That one just now was not!”

“I’ve been too lenient with you with all these surprise attacks it seems,” now he _grinned,_ reflexively feeling the parts where her fingers just landed. “But the good part is if you could take me off guard like that, then the not-nice folks could be _dead_.”

And with the chit-chat exchanged, it was too late for Ares to notice he practically had been walking with her until they reached the riverbanks. Months ago, typically early birds could find the Black Knight’s figure resting under a tree, with his lonely back leaned against the branch. He would be brooding pensively with sharp melancholic gaze directed at the flowing river, and those half-closed eyes would open even if what just touched him were just some falling leaves.

But after bumping into the dancer for shopping each morning, early birds might notice how they easily followed each other’s footsteps as they talked, and the Black Knight would simply tail the dancer to the riverbanks if it was what she did for the morning, breaking away only after she let out this little powerful spell called a farewell. Chit-chats slowly turned into training sessions, and those training sessions easily yielded an extra breakfast time because the dancer would not hesitate bringing food to confer her gratitude to him for teaching her.

And from behind, those curious eyes silently noted how the once formidable-looking lonely back sometimes slumped in a more peaceful manner, and instead of yanking a sword out of its sheath the Black Knight would simply look up with an open palm when leaves fell on him.

Watchers found themselves no longer being strictly shunned as they used to. It was still fresh in their minds how the Black Knight would threaten anyone daring enough to peek at him with death glares and gestures of unsheathing a sword. These days he did not look like he used to care as much, but the moment they pestered her those glares would be back to bark a silent warning.

Meanwhile, Ares rested himself against a tree. It was his typical spot to lean on, but these days somehow the branch felt softer and more comfortable to lean against as he would while watching her training. His eyes followed when she relentlessly swung her sword back and forth. 

There was one time when he hurriedly approached her because she wiped her forehead and paused. He genuinely thought she would faint. Regardless of stamina, sword training had its different challenge where power needed to be hammered into each swing. But when he got to where she stood, she merely inhaled and looked at him in the eyes before firmly stating she was alright and only planning to continue until she could reach the target he set. “I’m never shirking my training and job,” she told him.

This morning Ares watched as she laid down her dancing equipment on the ground. Leg rings, arm rings, scarves, long ribbons, iron balls— _wait what?_ Ares’ eyes widened when she held those two things in each hand. She rose her arms like a bird that was about to take a flight, and before he could blink, the graceful avian that was Lene made her entry. She proceeded by taking a graceful leap, her feet took off from the grass as her arms moved in a way which imitated soaring wings. Those arms flapped again like a half-circle curve when she landed, her head followed when her right arm traced the sky as it made a 90-degree angle movement from upwards to downwards. When one arm pointed at the ground, she raised a leg, and Ares imagined a pair of reversed scissor if not a maneuvering diving bird.

Lene would repeat the moves a couple of times until she was satisfied, and each time she was not it would mean a procession of rinse and repeat. When her foot did not straighten just as she hoped it would, she would repeat everything from the very beginning until she got the results she wanted. When her shoulders felt awkward as she spun to turn around, she would stop halfway, cancelling the motion even though the rest was executed perfectly only to rehearse what she felt odd again and again.

“You are panting,” Ares commented when crystal drops crowned Lene’s temples and forehead as her training made its fiftieth round.  _Please rest._

“One more,” she responded without looking at him. “One perfect 180-degree spin and I will stop.”

“How about dropping to the ground in a sitting position to exhale like…” his voice grew fainter, “… what you suggested me the other day.”

The morning which Ares thought of was the morning when they did not find each other at the market or followed each other to the riverbanks. Rather, it was her who found him there, at their treasured sanctuary, hanging a target over the same tree where he would rest. He had a short-sleeved shirt that day, with iron cesti covering his bandaged hands. And he had stopped before he started hitting his target just to nod at her when she called his name.

He did not stop when a fisherman’s child chirped about the Black Knight being “Very strong!” as his mouth formed an astonished letter O, with the fisherman urged the child to stop ogling at the Black Knight in faint whispers. He could not care less when old ladies whispered if he was about to take down the tree with his bare hands— _I am not, darn it, what fool does that,_ he thought—because he had been hitting his target like his life depended on it.

To Ares, that day the target bore Sigurd’s name over it, and his surrounding was a fire compound similar to a burning Leonster instead of a peaceful, cooling riverbanks. Doing strength and what could be called as cardio training itself was not new to Ares, but there was something cathartically pleasing to put on heavy battle gloves and giving his all to hit the target. Whether it was to contain and sate his bloodlust at the same time or just to achieve stronger shoulders which would not be troubled had he needed to swing Mystletainn for hundred times, he could not answer. All he was aware of was that he was pleased when the sword felt so much lighter the more he conditioned his shoulders to get used to the gloves.

_Take this. And this. And this. And this. And and and and—_

He huffed. If Sigurd was right there in front of him, his face would have been unrecognizable.

_That was for getting my father killed, you motherf—_

“Ares?”

_—That was for driving my mother to her early grave—_

“Is that Ares over there… Ares! Heyyy!”

_And that was for the pain I thought I never knew—_

“Ares! Are you training?”

_Where did he go? Where did the bastard’s figure go? He was here seconds ago. I pictured him to be a tall, unpleasantly muscular man with sadistic look in his eyes as he gloated over my father’s blood. What kind of a monster who took advantage of sincere friendship and murdered the friend in cold blood? How did he even get to win my father’s trust like that? Where was he? He was here. He had to be here. Where—_

“You are…”

“Yeees, it’s me, Lene! Good luck, I’m heading to buy fish now!”

_Training. I am supposed to—_

“… Yes, I am training.”

Present-day Lene did not really like the idea of him stopping her, however. “No, no,” she shook her head this time. “I can do no less. The stage has to be under control.”

“What will be good if you overwork yourself again?” he countered. “Why was it not okay for me, but okay for you? You want to be fair with me, then I too only like it fairly.”

“Because we are different.”

_Different…_

“I suppose… there has to be a great deal of difference between a mercenary and a dancer.”

“No, you dummy,” Lene stuck her tongue at him again. “That is not what I meant! The difference is at that time you looked so sad that I was concerned for you.”

 _Sad. Me?_ “But why would you be?”

“I only know dancing as my life. I can’t stop now. That’s why… if I give it less, if I become less of a dancer I am now, how can I… trace my mother’s footprints and perhaps… eventually find her?” she whispered. “And I am sure she never did less than giving the best to lift up people’s spirits.”

“I believe it.”

“Ares…”

“I’ve seen you dancing. I can’t believe anything else. She would be proud of you.”

“Hnnn,” Lene wanted to say something better than letting out such sound, but she simply could not. She nudged Ares on the arm and flicked his nose again, but to him it was everything he needed to know in regards to how she took his response. “… Thank you.”

“But of course,” he nodded firmly, at least for some few seconds since his smirk returned. “Now you are the one that is sad. So much for saying I looked sad.”

“Because…” _You looked_ _like someone who was ready to throw your life to the mercy of the battlefield and never returned and I would dread such day to come. And I was wondering if your hands did not hurt under those iron battle gloves and it was as if your blood spilled each time you landed a strike like there was this grief that manifested into physical injuries on you and each strike only made it worse and—_

“Because I could have destroyed the tree?” Ares glanced at her again, half-playful, half-hopeful for an actual answer. Well, he would be damned for ruining something she liked, alright…

“Because you looked tired! Pay attention to your body a little bit more, Ares, or before you know it, soon you will be frail like an old man!” instead of telling him that she just proceeded to approach him in her trademark cheerfully blunt manner.

“My body? Lene, I am fit.”

“Don’t say that with a straight face!”

“… But I am?”

“No straight face!”

“… Why are you blushing of all the sudden?”

“I am not, why are you so concerned of all the sudden?!”

“Because if you are exhausted and about to faint then I—“

“Nooo, you are not carrying me… this time.”

“… But I am fit?”

“ARES.”

“… Why do I get this foreboding sense that you wanted to murder me?”

“Because I would.”

“… Alright, you win,” dumbfounded, Ares yielded.

“Good, good,” Lene chuckled as if she was talking to a cat. “But really. What I meant is—“

_How do I convey that to him?_

“Yes?”

“In the morning, there will be chirping birds. Fresh breeze will come your way to fondle your hair and say hi to your face,” she closed her eyes, picturing those scenes as she spoke. “Then the world will wake up like a beautiful sleepy child—slow but sure, softly nudging you. Rising sun, golden sparkles which reigned on the sky, and…”

 _And everything will be alright because you know you can stop crying to try again,_ Grahnye would pull a blanket to cover the lion cub before landing gentle kisses on the child’s soft, apple-like cheeks.

 _And everything is burning with the streets covered in rubble and blood as people whimper in pain,_ he thought, reminiscing the moment his mother pulled him into a tight hug as she started running, landing gentle kisses each time she stopped so he did not cry.

_… And you will be there waving your hand at me with the same cheerful greeting like you always will—_

“Maybe I understand what you were trying to say,” he finally spoke.

“Really? Alright, what did I want to say?” she responded with a glint in her eyes.

 _A challenge,_ he noted. “Well, what did you want to say?” he simply shrugged.

“Cheater,” she pouted.

“How do I verify if I got it right?” he chuckled, opening the little wooden box she had brought with her when returning his cape. He no longer chuckled when finding four big, delicious-looking chicken parmesan slices in the box complete with a fork. “… You tried to save my morning.”

“As your cape saved me by being my clothing,” she nodded triumphantly. “I like it _fair_.”

“Fair enough,” he smiled faintly. “But you should stop pampering me like this because no way in hell the compound can prepare these if my taste starts to be royal…” his words trailed as his senses jolted, savoring the blissful delicious taste Lene’s cooking served him.

“You don’t need to be a royalty to know what is good,” she grinned.

“Hmmm. Say, Lene, suppose I am a royalty?”

“Huh? Interesting! Then you have greater responsibility to _know_ what is _excellent_ ,” she laughed. _Well,_ _come to think of it, Ares sure can pass as one,_ she contemplated, stealing a glance at him. He had a distinctive appearance which blessed him with a striking beauty. If not the groomed looks, sometimes Ares behaved and displayed courtly demeanors which other mercenaries did not seem to share as much.

“Excellent then,” Ares returned the laughter as his eyes cheekily landed on the food.

“If you are to be a royalty, then you might as well stop doing that,” Lene seized the chance right when she saw it. “Forcing yourself to go above your limit and ready to throw your life away.“

“What an odd royalty then,” he commented. _You were, Father. You always were._

“I mean it,” she pressed on, taking the breakfast box from him so suddenly. “Say, Ares, if you don’t heed me then I will feed you these.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she imitated his death glare. “Besides, you said it yourself—suppose you are a royalty. Well, now that you are a royalty, it is only normal to expect yourself getting taken care of, then!”

“Perhaps the royal should be the one taking care of others,” his reply came out quicker before he could filter it. “… You see, like… doing things they do not actually take pleasure in… to save more lives.”

“See, this is why…” Lene shook her head, quietly returning the box to him.

“Now you look gloomy,” he pointed.

She was about to respond when she caught a shadow lurking from behind. “Ares, watch out—“ in what looked like a quick reflex if not an impatient move, she pushed Ares aside and proceeded to get her sword.  Ares jolted. Mystletainn was always within his reach the moment he needed it, but…

She tried to save him.

Lene, who just learned to properly wield a sword actually pushed him behind her.

“Are you alright?” her voice hammered his ears, awakening his senses. And…

“M-my apologies!” the shadow, which then revealed itself to be a ragged man, muttered profusely as he knelt and bowed repeatedly before the Black Knight. “I did not see where I was going. I—I h-hope I did not hurt you!”

“… It’s alright,” Ares responded, rather apologetically. “Actually, I hope _I_ did not hurt you.”

“… What a surprise,” Lene noted, her eyes followed as the man dragged his legs to leave. People hardly bothered them—let alone getting close to Ares. But that man bumped into Ares as they were seated, and with his face running straight at his chest for a moment Lene feared he was about to stab Ares. The man looked like he was ready to bolt from there—again, something common to happen after bumping into him still his reputation just prompted that reaction out of many people. But something felt odd, just off, and…

It clicked.

“Lene?” Ares became alert when she stood up… more so with a sad look on her face.

“Ares, that person...“ not wanting to waste time, Lene kicked her heels and grabbed her sword. “Hey, wait!! How dare you!”

It did not take long for Ares to get up and get his sword because of the _how dare you_ she shouted, and after being more aware of his surroundings and happenings around him… as a man, he silently vowed to not make it a regular occurrence when he knew it. “Lene, wait!” _Not on my sight, fucker. Never—_

But Lene already sped off, taking the start. She was eager to chase the man, and Ares quickly followed suit. The dancer bravely ran up to the stranger, who turned around with widened eyes before accelerating his steps to run away from her. Before long, both of them were gone from the Black Knight’s sight and Ares clicked his tongue, yanking his cape to quickly wrap the breakfast box so that it could be securely carried over his shoulders like a provision bag.

Lene pushed through. If there was something she took a pride in, it would be her perseverance. Physically, not just in abstract manner. She had the endurance and stamina to keep going with her dancing routines and practices, and running was simply one of the things she normally did to train for the needed stamina when she danced.

“Stop following me, wench!”

“So rude, so unlike prior!” she shouted back, sidetracking boxes of goods and people around the market. “Why you—“

“Ha! That should teach you a lesson!” the man grinned after throwing a bag of flour at her.

Lene made an annoyed sound as she jumped over the bag, nearly leaped to grab the man by the collar. But he managed to unbalance her and proceeded to keep running, so Lene had to steady herself again before resuming to catch up with his footprints.

“Lene?”

From behind, she could see Ares racing to get her.

“I’ll explain later!” she shouted at him and went back to hunt her target. _This is not the time to be marveled by his speed or power—if this happens, Ares will…_

Ares’ eyes narrowed when he caught a subtle movement as the man dodged Lene’s grasp and bolted again to make her eat dust. It was his hand clutching on his cape, specifically the front chest area as he ran from her. Ares’ sharp gaze made a mental note he did that two more times. Jolted, he quickly put more speed in his heels as he rushed to get Lene.

Meanwhile  Lene, who was still hot on the man’s tracks, had a clearer view of his movements. Although she was practically tailing him from behind at this point, she caught those subtle gestures of him feeling his cape at the front chest area before uncomfortably shifting the same hand to his waist.

“Later, weirdo,” the man smirked, throwing a watermelon at her when she was close.

“Wait, you rat!”

_SPLOSH._

“… That was dangerous.”

Lene opened her eyes, finding Ares sheathed Mystletainn back after making a swiping motion to clean watermelon stains on the blade part. He had caught up with her and was just in time to cleave the fruit in two before it collided with her. “Ares…”

“Stay here,” he nodded. “I’ll go get him and drag him back here so you can have a word.”

“No,” she firmly shook her head. “Not even your smile will do for now!”

“What…” Ares could only stare haplessly when she left to pursue their target, feeling uncomfortable so suddenly. Why was she adamant? Did he…

_If you touched her, you die, bastard—_

He found himself running faster.

* * *

 

Lene glanced around. The man was nowhere to be found, and she had arrived at a dead end. There were only trash bags in the alley, and for a moment she started to feel doubtful. Dead alleys tended to have that sinister aura about them, and not long before this she also got into big trouble for following the textile boy to the back alley of their shop.

For a moment, she found it hard to keep moving.

But something stronger pushed her to keep going. That man—and Ares’ apologetic response, as if it was expected of him to always hurt people even though technically Ares was the one being bumped into out of the blue. And even then, that man still…

Lene gathered her confidence. Her legs were fine unlike before, and she could actually pursue that man until they got to this place. And now she even had her weapon with her, the weapon she had been training nearly everyday in the span of a month or so. And she knew that man was not a formidable enemy unlike the sadistic killer she encountered prior. A formidable enemy would waste no time incapacitating her or trying to get against Ares the moment the opening was there. And if he was not actually so nameless himself…

_When people looked for me, usually it would be either they wanted me to kill, or that they wanted to kill me._

His words echoed in her mind and she despised them. Every single one of them.

“You better return what you took from him,” Lene shouted at the alley. What did Ares always teach her about taking an opponent off guard? The element of surprise. Surprise…

And just then she grabbed a bag of trash and threw it around, prompting reflexive grumbles and cusses to emerge from somewhere-whocares corner around the alley. “You crazy wench,” the man swore, cleaning the remnants of whatever inside the bag that did him messy.

“Return his wallet,” Lene glared at him. “He is too kind and too nice for the _shit_ you are pulling!”

“Sounds like a nice boyfriend you have there, little miss, so tell me why should you care if chances are he does not?” the man muttered again, annoyed. “Goodness gracious, lady, I’ve never been chased so fiercely like this before… I thought my lungs would explode.”

“Exactly because he is nice, you fool!” Lene shouted, trying to suppress the audacious red shades which slowly emerged on her cheeks when the man used _that_ word. “See, we are all tired! So just return the wallet and be done with it already!”

“Yeah? Like hell I will! I gotta eat too!” the man hissed.

“Return his wallet and I’ll give what you need for lunch!” Lene shouted again.

“And what is it for you?”

“I’ll forget you attempted to hit me with that stupid watermelon,” she huffed. “Because he is not going to forgive you when he gets here, you know?”

“Kind and nice you said. Some fellow he is then,” the man grumbled again. “Nooope. This is mine. Off with you, I’m not going to play today, geez!”

“I’m not playing either,” Lene glared at him again. “Return it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ve got a sword?” Lene made a stance. _This is it. My first fight. A real fight—_

“Yeah? I’ve got a dagger here too, so what? Come on, play with someone else if you are bored. Bye bye for now, gotta have a feast with this one!” the thief smirked, lunging at her.

She dodged.

Oh lordy she did dodge. _He was trying to scare me,_ her senses quickly caught in. She earnestly took a step back, effectively blocking the thief from using the opportunity to run away. “Bold of you to assume I would not be catching that,” she huffed.

“You are so alert, are you a thief?”

“Sorry to disappoint you but I work hard for everything I’ve got here, you see! I’ve been at the streets for long and seeing many kinds of people that simple tricks hardly surprise me,” Lene responded, not sure if she was embarrassed for being called Ares’ girlfriend or being mistaken as a thief.

“Then as fellow street-dweller, how do you convince me that you will truly let me go if I return the wallet?” the thief gaped.

“The same way he did not even lay a finger on you,” she replied earnestly. “So please…”

“Is this some kind of stunt? I’ve heard way too much bullshit for the day. Off with you, I’m not playing anymore. One step closer and I can slash your face.”

“… Sad that life is such that cruelty has become a norm, isn’t it?” she murmured, more to herself than the thief. Yet her fiery determination returned when the thief was taken aback by what she said. “And _if_.”

“Oookay, you asked for it. Don’t cry if you get hurt there, missy!” the thief lunged at her again.

She dodged. Her eyes were focused on the arm which wielded the dagger. _Concentrate. Concentrate,_ she told herself again and again. _I am a different woman now. I learned to fight. I COULD try to fight._

“Persistent aren’t you,” the thief grumbled, striking again.

Lene dodged, turning her heel so that she was perfectly behind him this time. Thoughts of the fighting tips Ares taught her started to emerge in her head, clearer than ever.

_Catch him off guard. You have what I do not, and I didn’t say this lightly. So unbalance him. Unseat his center of gravity—_

The thief yelped when Lene brought her sword down over his shoulder, causing him to tumble to the ground as her blunt blade part hammered over his body.

Lene looked down, feeling proud. Her first fight. And she won it. And this time, she _saved Ares._ And…

The thief winced in pain before it quickly turned into a smirk. “Gotcha!”

“Cheater!” Lene bellowed as the thief threw a handful of sand at her face.

“Haha, where are you aiming?” the thief laughed as he tried to muster some strength to run again.

“Not so fast,” Lene muttered under her breath.  _“Motherfucker.”_

“W-wha—“

“Lene?!”

Both the thief and Ares, who just reached her, could only stared in shock when Lene made her move. It was the dance move she practiced with Ares watching her before he got to eat the breakfast she cooked for him. Lene arched her body, raising her leg to land a swift kick which caught the thief from under the chin. She might be lacking attack power since she was first and foremost a dancer, but it was enough to surprise him and she spun as her original dance training demanded of her; forming a reversed scissor with her raised leg rotating to reach the ground. And with it, she quickly swung her sword again, smacking the thief on the temple just like the paralyzing tip Ares shared with her before.

“You are not going to laugh like that again. Return his wallet.”

Ares stared. Wallet? And that move just now—

 _Incredible,_ he could not help himself but feeling absolutely marveled by what she displayed. “Lene?” he called on her again, Mystletainn being unsheathed as he came closer.

“He pickpocketed you!” without hesitation, Lene wanted to crouch and retrieve the wallet back.

“No,” Ares muttered. “Stay there.”

“What are you doing, ripping my clothes naked?!” the thief stared in shock.

“If necessary,” Ares waved him off as Mystletainn made a quick, light slash into the thief’s fabrics, revealing the pouch he had taken—only now securely hooked against Mystletainn’s blade tip.

“Some nice and kind fellow you are,” the thief grumbled, rubbing on his temple where Lene struck him.

“Nice and kind?” Ares _smirked._ “There must be a confusion here. I _am_ the mean one of us two,” he stole a glance at Lene. “… And don’t move. I know you concealed a pocket knife around your chest.”

“So you know,” Lene sighed.

“That’s why I rushed to get you,” Ares smiled sheepishly. “We like it fair, don’t we, Lene?”

“No,” Lene glared at the Black Knight. “I bet you did not notice he took your wallet!”

“It isn’t so bad rather than the possibility of yet another asswipe touching you.”

“H-huh…”

“I mean—“ Ares shyly glanced somewhere else, “even if I knew he took my wallet, I couldn’t care less.”

Both the thief and the Black Knight could only stare when Lene made annoyed huffing sound as she lightly bludgeoned the blond-haired knight on the head… with the handle of her sword. “THAT exactly is the problem, Ares, Black Knight, harbinger of dark colors, destroyer of fashion!”

“I… am the problem?” Ares repeated, dumbfounded.

“Man, I took back my words, she is formidable. You are the nice one,” the thief snickered, and quickly shut up when Ares glared again.

“No, she is the nice one. She does not even glare.”

“As in…” Lene sighed, defeated. “Ares, I just… I don’t want you to get used to people walking on you like some doormat you are, you know?! So what if you are strong, does not mean people can just walk up to you and hit you as they please!”

“… You just did?”

“That is different!”

“Agreed. Of course it is different. I have no problem with you doing that so far.”

“Sounds like you guys are married, huh,” the thief chirped again.

“Shut your damn mouth!” both Ares and Lene bellowed at him, prompting him to gulp.

“I don’t like it,” Lene continued, biting her lips. “I don’t want you to get used to pain. I don’t want you to only know suffering. I don’t want you to think that you… deserve less than whatever it is normal things other normal people have. I don’t like it when you seem to have no problem facing dangers head-on or accepting unpleasant conditions just… just because it is you,” her voice faded away, getting fainter and fainter as she said those. “I can’t… stand the idea of how much things you endured simply because… because you thought that was all you should accept in this world! I know you probably could not care less if he took all your money, but… the fact that it did not disturb you—as if somehow you are saying it does not matter because it’s just you and after all that is the only thing you deserve, I…”

“But Lene...“

“… I can’t accept that! What do you like, Ares? What food do you like? Do you play board games when you are bored? What fruits you usually get in summer? Tell me! Tell me everything! Do not hesitate because—because I want you to be happy too and not… overlapping life with… a battlefield.”

_Eh…_

“… I have buried those thoughts for years, Lene,” he finally spoke, his tone was gentle as if he was almost crying because of what he heard from her. “And I don’t plan to die just yet. Not that easily.”

_Not until I can avenge my father and probably return his realm to its former glory._

“I hope you truly meant it,” she murmured.

_Not that I that you will be waiting for my return, mission after mission—or that I want to see you again, dancing—_

“I do. But sometimes to survive there is a price we need to pay, just like you… and even this petty thief sure knows about,” Ares looked at the dancer tenderly as if he was conveying a deep, deep gratitude. “But I guess with you around surprising me again and again, I’d slowly remember those things.”

“For real? Oooh gosh, I thought you were genuinely annoyed.”

“Well, better to hear birds chirping in the morning than not at all even though they wake you up, don’t you think?” Ares shrugged, trying to keep everything low-key and neutral although she was practically beaming now. “Besides, if you are not around then how do I know if I trained well or not?”

“You have your answer,” Lene smirked at the thief.

“Well, I know _you_ trained yourself well,” Ares returned the smirk, referring to the dance move she used to win the fight. “Then I guess I should stick around in the morning to witness more of that.”

“You totally should!” Lene laughed before realizing something. “Ah, this thief…”

“If you are hungry, buy yourself a meal for the day,” Ares reached for some banknotes from the pouch he took back. “And I suggest you reform your way because next time you may not be so lucky,” he gave a slight nod before ushering Lene to get out of the alley.

“… Hey, blonde. Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“That girl kept saying you are nice and kind,” the thief pondered, contemplating the money Ares shoved over his palm. “I… guess she is right then. I’m sorry about that.”

“No,” Ares simply smirked, looking back to make sure Lene was no longer within earshot. “I told you I am the mean one of us two. Had she not chase you and said these things she did to either of us—“ he patted Mystletainn. “I knew you carried a concealed pocket knife there. And I was picturing something else when I saw you throwing that fruit at her. I can only thank the gods I was proven wrong, since I thought it was a knife you were throwing at her.”

“Y-you meant to actually kill me if she did not get me?”

“Here? No,” Ares shook his head casually. “Because if it was up to me, then it would not wait until here.”

“T-that’s the case, huh…” the thief paled with fright now.

“Case?” Ares merely shrugged again, “this would hardly even be a case _for me_ had you picked and touched the wrong target. Good morning for now.”

“W-wait! Wait!” the thief gasped when Ares was about to leave.

“Yeah?”

“Who… are you?”

Ares glanced again. Lene was still waiting outside the alley, her face spoke of various things he could not decipher all at once. Anxious—nervous—but also hopeful, like she was waiting on him earnestly, believing he would be back… _with a clean sword._

“It is Ares,” he smiled faintly as he turned around to catch up with her. “You can call me Ares.”


	14. Confused

He brought his glass to his mouth. Taste of mulled wine graced his tongue as warmth sparked in his throat when he downed the liquid. People were simultaneously clapping and yelling praises around him, with a bar-goer seated exactly next to his table had been shouting “Bravo!” until his voice turned coarse.

 

Nobody could ignore the charming desert flower that was Lene, the bar’s prima donna dancer. Her body swayed around to follow the beats of the drum and whistles of the flute. Regardless, her performance would always be invigorating, invoking some sort of optimism in her audience no matter how their city coped with its challenges, foremost due to being located at the desert.

He did tell her how the dances made him feel humane... yet so far he hardly went into details. There would be this energizing feeling he got after attending her dances. It was as if he got a surge of confidence that he could take on the world, on anything, that he would survive to wake up another day. Before he knew it, her dances had become an essential need to close the day.

Watching the night dances strangely reminded him of taking a nice relaxing cup of before-bed hot milk. It gave some sort of reassurance that there would always be hope after sunrise, and how he would live to see the next day unfold. And to think it had been many years since the last cup of his milk-before-bed habit…

Lene not only knew how to catch her audience’s attention; the best thing— _or worst_ ,he rolled his eyes at the shouting man next to his table—about her was that she could maintain it once she caught it. Her interactive gestures in between movements and music interlude captivated her audience just as much if not more than the choreography themselves, and boy was she good at it. Small smiles, casual winks, or how the look in her eyes changed as audience eagerly followed her sequences as her movements transitioned from one to another, and another, another—she was an artist, not a mere performer. She enthralled people by drawing them into her world, making them feel involved. Perhaps that explained why her dances easily reasoned to the audience, as if every dance was planned specifically for them.

 _Too good, perhaps,_ Ares rolled his eyes again when people rose to give a standing ovation—with the same man now raging how beautiful she was—rather, how beautiful those “delicious latte thighs” looked as he put it. Nevertheless, the Black Knight joined the masses to stand as a sign of appreciation toward her performance although his expression remained firm. Lene was busy bowing back and forth; waving to the audience to acknowledge the praises she received as musicians set their instruments to stand up joining her. When roses were being thrown at her, she gracefully stepped aside to let the musicians take the spotlight and enjoy their share of praises.

“Thank you! Thank you, you are a great audience!” Lene waved for the last time, earning even more thunderous applause from the crowd as she proceeded to descend the stage. She had been there many times, but each warm welcome still gave her the same nice feeling like it was her first. They were cheering for her like unfortunate travelers who encountered an oasis after being stranded on a desert for days.

“One more, one more!” someone yelled, lifting his glass.

“Be mindful, I heard the last time this happened, poor girl exhausted herself,” the woman who appeared to be his wife glared at him. The two sat pretty far from where the Black Knight sat, but close enough for him to listen to their interaction. And upon hearing such response, Ares _smirked. Women are a blessing indeed,_ he mused, as his gaze darted back onto the stage where Lene was. He unconsciously nodded at her as if giving her a solemn acknowledgement.

Meanwhile, Lene caught Ares’ familiar figure among the crowd who gave her a standing ovation, and her eyes glinted. He did not praise or clap like the others—something normal considering this was _Ares_ , but still there was something reassuring with him being there to watch. Ares had always watched the dances in silence since the first day she noticed that he was also a part of the crowd, and his serene presence made it seem like he was savoring every sequence and it comforted her. And she sure wanted to convey a non-written thank you note for that.

Ares was practically nailed to the floor at this point. Her gaze was pointed at his direction, and he found himself clearing his throat as she winked and smiled at him. He looked around to see if she meant someone else—because that… couldn’t be, right? Like, why would she _wink_ at him? But all he got was her cheery laughter when he looked at her again, as if she just called him dumb. _Must be just me,_ he pondered. And then he satisfied himself shooting a death glare at the man who occupied the table next to his and shouted vulgarities to the dancer before.

“I heard that.”

He then curiously looked at her again. With the other man starting to behave more appropriately it should be easier to see where her gaze actually went.

Yet she made a small huffing gesture, placing her hands on her hips as if she was scolding him. In that split-second demeanor he barely registered, her body language changed to as it was before—smiling and waving. But it was clear now that her eyes were fixed on his, and the glinting expression stayed.

Reluctantly, he held his arm and gave an awkward wave. Clearing his throat, he dumped his weight to the seat, nervously meant to finish his mulled wine as his other hand dragged the chair for a sense of an even-more comfortable sitting experience. He hardly ever waved or clap for anyone— _everyone, dammit,_ he thought as he nearly choked on the last drips of the wine. But this was Lene, and he had understood too well that Lene easily equaled the literal definition of first times, and as always she successfully made him do things he barely thought about for the first time… again.

 _So that was to make me…_ Ares cleared his throat as he ordered another glass of mulled wine. If only Lene could hear him mumbling his crusader ancestor’s name for feeling defeated.

* * *

 

“I thought this table only had one solo chair left,” she exclaimed, carrying all the bouquets she received to their table. … His table, actually.

“The person who sat next to me left,” he replied, unconsciously pulling a chair out for her.

“You mean _fled_ ,” she rolled her eyes at him. “What did he do?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “And to answer your question, talking.”

Ares would still be Ares, even if she just managed to prompt a non-Ares reaction one from an Ares. “I’m exhausted,” she stated after raining some light chuckles on him. “For someone who had the expression of eating a rock just because of being tricked into waving, you talked so mighty,” she moved to sit _on_ the table, taunting him even more.

“Do not poke a sleeping lion,” Ares countered with the fakest scowl he could muster.

“A domesticated lion is just a big cat.”

Ares paused where he sat. Well, now that she said it…  “I had a premonition. You wanted to squeeze my cheeks as you would do to a cat since you compared me to one.”

“You sound afraid,” she laughed menacingly.

“… Admittedly so,” he concurred. “Hey—“ his eyes nearly bulged when she snatched his glass without remorse.

“What?” Lene put down the glass, practically emptying his wine by a half. She laughed again when Ares could only stare helplessly at his wine she invaded.

“You…”

“Yeees?” her cheerful tone only grew even more mischievous when the fearsome Black Knight could only mutter that as a response. Empty threat, she knew it _now._ Months passed by and she found herself getting used to his presence. Even more, their little interactions here and there and how natural everything felt to her. The Black Knight’s figure and existence in her life had grown on her—that was true, as for many other citizens of Darna. Yet that sense of familiarity, if not closeness… even she herself never expected it. But Lene would just easily confess of being drawn to Ares day by day, and she valued every moment they spent together, be it when he spent some of his mornings shopping with her or when he helped her training with the sword. Later on she realized he made an attentively spectator when he attended her dances because his eyes moved to follow her movements, as if analyzing something important.

Even though he hardly ever commented on the dances, she wondered if there was something specific he wanted to find because he tended to leave with a subtle hint of satisfaction in his eyes after watching the dances. Then she wondered if he—or people around him—noticed he had become more talkative or appeared in a better mood in the morning.

Regardless, she was glad that her dance actually worked on him too. The Black Knight everyone was familiar with tended to look grim and had this nihilistic bearing about him. Getting to know him better introduced Lene to the Ares layers-under. She noticed his habit of keeping his infamous demon sword Mystletainn within reach no matter where he went, for example, or how sounds of lightning alerted him as if an apocalypse was coming. But the same Ares unhesitatingly gave her free rides when the night fell, and even her friends and elderly people who lived close by the market and the bar could attest how he would also not hesitate to roll his sleeves and helped them despite his unspoken “I don’t chat,” policy.

Lene sighed as she kept taunting Ares and his lamentable wine she just stole. A realization crept into her innermost mind—how she was so used to his presence that it would just be odd if without. Even after knowing mercenaries usually moved places. Even after knowing the Black Knight firmly said he did not consider to be tied to anywhere—or to anyone in a strict liege and retainer frame. Still, she hoped it would take longer, much longer than what Javarro had planned—if he did, too—for the group to move in search of a greener field. With clients who often measured arts as _they_ saw fitting and unsavory men who could not understand the concept of consent, having Ares around brought a breath of fresh air. In those firm eyes and tight lips—even in the moments of “I’m not sure if I know much,” confession moment about art from him—she found a blissful sanctuary; an appreciation regardless of what was what. Even when she got Ares into understanding the art little by little, the way he darted his glance at the stage each performance remained unchanged and she silently appreciated it.

“You got so many,” the Black Knight finally spoke after seeing the bouquets she received since she casually dumped them over his table as well.

“I’m glad they liked me tonight!” Lene replied, humming as she sorted out the bouquets before whispering to him, “some of these are edible.” When Ares nearly choked himself out of laughter upon hearing that, she went on, “hey, there is always, always a chance to save money.”

“I’ve always thought you liked them all,” he said. “Just not in _that_ way.”

“I actually still like them just the way they are, but let a girl live,” Lene grinned. “… Alright, how about this then. I’ll get these flowers prepared and make you something out of them!”

“Food, for me,” he replied after giving a thought, “… again?”

“What will I not give just to see you bask in flowers,” Lene’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “If I turn them into treats, you won’t be able to escape since they will be inside of you! Haha, I can’t wait to see you sulking and being so miserable since there are pretty things inside of you!!”

“I can always go to the bathroom, Miss.”

His polite tone—albeit said in a courteous manner as if he was gauging who would break first—successfully stopped her playful villainous laughter. “… That truly escaped me just now. Ah, you are right—wait, no—ugh, Ares, you’re gross,” Lene sighed.

“Glad to have my wine back,” Ares grinned when Lene simply passed his glass to him over the table. He sensed Lene was about to yank his hair again like she would each time he defeated her, but they could not continue amusing each other with their antics when a shadow interrupted.

The supposed shadow made a soft coughing sound, one akin to clearing throat to get the intended person’s attention. Lene and Ares subsequently stopped joking with each other, turning around to find a lingering figure coming closer at their direction. When the figure finally fully came into their vision, they could see what the person looked like.

“Ah, you seem to be in delight, Miss Dancer.”

The figure turned out to be a young man who dressed in elaborate clothing—an expensive-looking dark red velvet overdress went to above his knees, which was then covered with deep latte-brown breeches. Underneath the overdress the man had put on a white shirt and silver vest, and with neatly-trimmed dark hair and sharp green eyes, he exuded a royal bearing.

Lene made a slow retreat, descending from the table she sat on. By one look Ares could already tell that she was truly embarrassed. “Um… yes, I was just joking with my friend Ares over here…” she responded, gesturing to the Black Knight who already fixed his eyes on the intruder the moment he made himself known. Lene nearly cussed herself if her sense of awareness of being in public place did not rein her in—she was still at the bar, and the sweet charming demeanor of her stage mannerism was supposed to last at least until she left or make sure all the well-wishers and fans were interacted with.

“Perhaps I startled you,” the red-velvet nobleman gave a slight bow at her, completely ignored Ares’ presence even though she mentioned him. “I just wanted to give the stage princess this bouquet before she returned to her castle.”

“I have no castle to return to,” Lene replied politely. “That’s a charming bouquet indeed!”

“But of course. Only one I’m hoping to befit the charmer herself,” the nobleman smiled.

“You speak like that at home?” Ares snorted, prompting Lene to study him from the corner of her eyes. Ares hardly cared how people talked so far, but gods be damned if he could not act _like that_ once in a while when he thought the timing was impeccable. After all, he had a knack to mercilessly cease an argument before it even exploded into one. But still, Ares’ rather unusual approach aside, Lene could not deny that this was unlike what she had encountered so far, and having a rich-looking person expressing his adoration towards her in a very open, if not blunt manner—without the callousness or vulgarities from the unsavory ones she had more experiences handling—she was tongue-tied.

“Perhaps,” the nobleman casually shrugged, unperturbed by Ares’ joke—if not taunting. “I appreciate women, Sir Knight, like I do the other finer things in this short life. Maybe there are things even great swordsmen do not know.”

“And that would be?”

“Carrying a sword in a lady’s presence, let alone a very lovely one like her?” the nobleman casually responded. “Or the art of gallantry and other gentlemanly essentials, perhaps?”

“I wonder,” Ares calmly replied, “how an intoxicated speech marks gallantry.”

Lene let out a soft gasp out of reflex.

But the nobleman merely chuckled. “I can’t think of any reason as to why stories of war glory and morbidity can entertain the lovely miss more than a language of flowers and beauty,” he said. “But then again I said even _great swordsmen_ do not know, and I am not a war criminal here to demand such a thing out of _you,_ Sir.”

Ares’ eyebrows twitched.

“Um—“ Lene quickly took the bouquet from the nobleman. “T-that’s—a truly, truly beautiful bouquet you have there for me, milord, and I am most grateful. I’m sorry not being able to chat with you tonight, because my friend and I are rather… preoccupied!”

“Is that so? How unfortunate, my dear. Your knight there seems to be in a talking mood,” the nobleman suavely commented. “So perhaps I can take you home tonight if Sir Knight over there is in need of a… chatting partner. Swordsmen talk these days? How curious, I almost, almost thought they only kill, at least before I came here!”

Ares’ eyes ignited as he spoke. “I do not do delirious talking and call it cultured,” he replied coldly. “Let alone in the presence of ladies because I never want to _scare_ women.”

The nobleman was taken aback for a second, but he quickly got a hold of himself. “Then perhaps you should hone your tongue as much as you hone your swordsmanship skill, Sir,” he commented in a cheeky manner, “considering there is a chance that you might be lacking.”

“Indeed I might, so why don’t you find out?” Ares gestured to Mystletainn, under the wary eyes of Lene who looked like she was ready to pull him back all at once.

“My, I should have guessed you would be offended,” the nobleman laughed. “Quicker than you would about your manners. Ah, Sir Knight, would be such a waste to let a beauty pass the night without making it known to her how captivating she is.”

“Oh trust me, I am not offended,” Ares smirked. “I have no reason to in regards of my manners, since she can be sure I’m not a threat to her by not offering an unsolicited opinion.”

“Such a gentleman,” the nobleman replied sarcastically.

“Thank you,” Ares nodded, “and may I add, never in my life I implied she was ugly that I would need to be a noble savior to let her know it is not the case.”

“Ares,” Lene whispered, eager to defuse the situation by turning to the nobleman again. “I’m sorry for interrupting, milord, but you are? Pardon, I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Oh. Well, well, where are my manners indeed! I am—“

“Exactly. Where were they?” Ares cut in, suddenly smelling blood that he almost, almost grinned when the nobleman frowned. “Oh, sorry. You were right, I’m in a chatty mood.”

“Um—“ Lene spoke again, “may I add, Sir Ares did not marvel me with such stories, milord. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he even considers that entertaining,” she gave a polite smile while her other hand sneaked behind to pinch Ares from the back.

“Ares, is that it,” the nobleman mumbled as if trying to memorize it, and Lene wanted to pinch the Black Knight again because he just smirked. “I’m Paris, heir to the Acalve Manor. I’m not actually crown-titled, so I appreciate the courtesy. And what is the enchanting lady’s name?” he smiled at Lene, while taking Ares’ arm and weaved the Black Knight into a handshake.

Ares grimaced a bit, feeling the strength Paris-or whatsoever the name again-Acalve put in that handshake. He was aware that he had been rather audacious with him, but a baron parading his wealth in a really spectacular manner was not something he would see every day, let alone there at the humble bar where Lene danced. He did imagine some rich patrons would try to charm the dancers or have their eyes around for some casual flirting or innocent adoration, but to actually approach her at the table after she had done dancing was something he did not hear often—let alone when it was clear that she was with a companion. Perhaps he should not do that in the first place—risking Lene to lose a potential wealthy patron by following his own urge to trample over Paris’ flashy entrance.

“It’s Lene,” Lene bowed a bit courteously. “And… uh—Ares?”

“What’s wrong, Sir Ares, not in a chatty mood anymore?”

Ares held on although Paris seemed to taunt him into a passive-aggressive battle. He felt the nobleman’s palm pressed over his, even more forceful this time. Paris’ hand clasped his palm, his fingers captured his with a steel grip that it nearly awakened the lion inside him to return the gracious gesture, answering his own belligerent urge. There was probably a solid two-three minutes between the two until Paris let go, and Ares found himself again resisting the urge to relax his fingers by merely letting that hand limp to his side. “I am a keen listener too,” he eventually spoke… politely. Perhaps it was just him and his bloodlust; after all he could use some time to see if Paris was as annoying as he appeared to be.

… What Ares did not understand was that why he had this sudden urge to out-asshole the asshole just because the other guy was so flashy in displaying his wealth and adoration to Lene.

“I’ll take that into account,” Paris responded, and Ares felt rather uneasy about it. Paris still maintained a composed demeanor, not even looking like he was about to engage Ares in a fight there since the Black Knight supposedly insulted him. Yet each time Paris spoke tickled him, and boy Ares truly wished he knew why.

 _This asshole is trained,_ Ares pondered, reflexively tucking his hand into the pocket of his pants, a move he regretted when catching the twinkle in Paris’ eyes as he did so. The Black Knight never retreated from a fight, and his uneasiness, manifested in that gesture, sure gave Paris a sense of triumphant thinking even if the corniest of men would hate being served straight and looking weak in front of a female companion.

“Is something… wrong?” Lene anxiously eyed Ares, whom by then had stopped saying anything. Yet the Black Knight stood straight like he was in a military inspection, and knowing Ares for half a year by then, Lene was too perceptive to be fooled.

“Oh no, not at all, my dear,” it was Paris who responded, casually waving his hand back and forth, oblivious to Ares’ investigating sharp look. “Anyway, you are absolutely right about me not hailing from here. I came here to take care of my father’s business while I am here. My carriage broke halfway so we decided to stop while it was being repaired,” he explained. “Never in my life would I think that there was a hidden gem in a desert area like this.”

“You… mine?”

Paris chuckled. “No, my lovely, no. I meant you. I’m so lucky to see your dance tonight.”

“… Oh,” Lene let out a soft sigh as she looked down shyly.

“And I suppose I can be Count Bramsel’s guest while I am here. My father trades with him.”

It did not escape Ares that Paris’ eyes lingered at his when saying that. When he was weighing in whether acting like it did not happen or actually responding to the subtle gesture, a boy had rushed into the bar. The boy, probably not older than eight or nine years old, hastily ran to where they were, with an expensive-looking fur coat in his hand. “Master Paris?” the boy called, swiftly making his way to where his lord stood. “Your coat, milord! The carriage is almost done, we can reach for the Count’s castle before midnight!”

The boy nearly tumbled but Paris caught the coat in time. “Well is that not a delight! Too bad I need to leave, Sir Ares, considering you are in a such chatty mood. But I will be around as long as my business here needs me,” he nodded, as if expecting Ares would even ask that. “Probably in a week or so. And of course, I cannot wait to see more dances.”

“Milord,” the boy nodded, draping the coat for his lord as Paris bent a bit so that he was within reach. The boy patiently put the coat on him, and almost tumbled again when he tripped over Ares’ boots. “I—uh, I’m sorry about that, Sir.”

Ares put his palm over the boys’ back to steady him. “How old are you?”

“Almost eight, Sir. Something the matter?” the boy replied, his gaze was fixed on the floor.

“I see. So!” Ares muttered sharply to Paris, “you had the money to buy that,” he pointed at the coat, “… yet none to even notice the page is too young for that duty.”

“He works for me,” Paris responded calmly. “And how does it concern you, Sir Ares?”

“I can see that,” Ares growled. “But I suppose I’m not a fan of oppressing children.”

“Oppressing?” Paris cocked an eyebrow, but before long his laughter already tore the night. “Why, you are one funny fellow. This boy lives in my manor. I feed him. I employ him.”

“I suppose when you can buy horses as many as you want, it becomes harder to differentiate them with a human,” Ares glared. “And treating women like they are your amusement too.”

“Ares,” Lene whispered, pinching him harder this time.

“Please, stop amusing me. I yield, I yield. You are very talented,” Paris held up his hands as if he was defeated. “Unlike me, since I did not make children fatherless with my sword!”

For the first time, Ares really wanted to have all the time in this world to punch someone. And for the first time, that person would be himself first and Paris second. He stood there, looking perplexed while Paris kept that smug, triumphant smile on his face. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—while Lene anxiously watching him; her fingers were still planted at his waist ready to rein him in case his fist flew faster than his words. But this time he could not find anything, anything at all to say—besides the little throbbing twinge at the corner of his heart because as much as he hated it, he had to admit those words contained _truth._

“I am aware,” Ares muttered under his breath after a pause which felt like forever. “That is why I aspire for children to be treated _kindly_.”

“And _you_ are to advocate me about that?” Paris’ eyes glistened again. “My, my, why, isn’t this world funny! A _mercenary_ like you trying to tell me about children—me, who put this kid in my warm manor, giving him a bed and meals, while you… ah yes, what do you do again?”

 _Mercenary._ “You seem to dislike my kind, milord.”

“Oh I do,” the lordling firmly stated. “Believe me I do. And you best believe me I know you are not a regular sworn-in army considering your manner hardly resembles one. Killing business is on the rise these days that even a monkey can dress in regalia if it has the money to.”

Murmurs and chatters started brewing as people gathered to see what it was about, their eyes twinkled with curiosity when they saw how the Black Knight got tongue-tied while the other gentleman looking like he got the upperhand. People gathered around, half-excited half-nervous of what was bound to happen next. Would this turn into a fight? The Black Knight was pushed to a corner—he, the Black Knight, the one who usually silenced people just with a few words! And hold on—a rich fellow who withstood him, let alone being there for the dancer?

“I was wondering,” Ares shrugged, “how someone who claimed to loathe the sword could recognize a mercenary at the first sight. I guess sharing the same group or societal class with our foremost employer, that one just now came out of reflex?”

“I don’t understand, Sir Ares.”

“Well,” Ares responded in a different manner, his eyes went back to Lene as if reassuring her that he was not going to start a fight there, “I made children fatherless, that, I have to admit. But I do not kill children slowly through starvation or deteriorating living condition, considering...” he sipped his wine again, “... the likes of you drove their fathers to do what in turn sent them to their early grave in the first place.”

Nobody said a word that night. Ares’ words were sounded casual, but his eyes were burning the entire bar as he spoke, as if something deeper than wanting to out-alpha the alpha just crawled from the dead to speak the words it had been dying to since it got buried. Ares put his glass down, accidentally making a louder sound than he initially intended to, his mind flying back to tired hungry nights where he had to dig for trash cans just to have a piece of yesterday’s bread. Something in Paris’ suave manner somehow bothered him, but the Black Knight was even more confused why he cared rather than why he found Paris annoying.

When the bar seemed to be trapped in what felt like an infinite loop of silence, another figure came inside. A wrinkly old man entered the bar, blissfully unaware of the escalating tension between his lord and Darna’s current most-feared mercenary, and the anxious lovely dancer who felt trapped between the two’s dominating aura. “Milord,” he gave a bow, easily finding Paris whom by then had come into a head-to-head standing against Ares. “The carriage is fixed. We can proceed to ride to Count Bramsel’s castle.”

“Now that is relieving,” Paris nodded. Without hesitation he took Lene’s palm in his, and Lene stared wide-eyed at him when he did not waste time to bring her palm into his lips to kiss it. “I shall be leaving now, dear, but I can’t wait to see you on stage again while I’m here,” he spared her a gentle smile, lingering in what appeared to be a move to get closer.

… Well, at least that was his intention before Ares seized his wrist.

People gasped when he did just that, let alone Lene who could only look blankly when Ares’ hand rested above hers and Paris’. “Ah, my apologies. I have this habit of moving faster than I can think sometimes. Pragmatic battle-hardened reflex,” he flashed a feral smile again, “especially when the person I am with is not fond of being aggressively approached.”

“You’ve got a problem,” Paris looked at him, his eyes narrowing as if marking a prey.

Ares grinned, trying to contain that sudden urge to sate his bloodlust—no, not bloodlust, he never planned to kill this nobleman in the first place, anyway—but there was just... something, something that tickled his senses each time he had to face the nobleman like this, taking turn to flash their fangs at each other. “Perhaps. So I’m solving it now.”

Lene sighed. “Time!” she said, purposefully louder and even more cheerful as she broke both men’s entangling hands over hers by pulling her own hand off Paris’. “That truly is relieving to hear, milord. The bar is an open place, though,” she gave a polite smile which did not escape Ares’ watchful eyes at the moment. “Some days I am here, and some other, I am not. I’m sure there are other entertainers who can captivate your fancy.”

“Now that my eyes have sailed, it will be quite hard to forget you, dear,” Paris shook his head, chuckling gently. “Or does your guard dog follow you around everywhere you go?”

“Guard dog? Haha, my lord is charming. My _friend_ there likes his nights simple with a good drink and food just like the next person does,” Lene subtly deflected, her other hand again sneaking into the back side of Ares as a reminder for the warrior to tone down that sudden alpha-rivalry atmosphere he seemed to eagerly exude... for some reason.

“I’m glad you found me charming,” Paris gave a slight bow at her. “Let this be a start of a warm friendship, dear. Do let me know if you don’t like anything, because I’ll be glad to fix it!” He then arched his body, whispering... “Including your guard dog over there. You are safe for now.”

The corner of Ares’ lips twitched when the voice grazed his ear, and not even Lene twisting his skin into a pinch could stop him from returning the kind gesture the other alpha conveyed to him. “So are you since the beginning,” he said, with his hands tucked in his pants’ pocket.

Everyone held their breaths when Paris withdrew, and they collectively exhaled when Paris did not actually retort to punch Ares. Instead, the nobleman fixed his coat and opted out to leave the bar in peace with his page and valet in tow. Curious eyes followed anticipatingly, but they only found Paris getting inside the carriage after the valet opened the door for him before climbing up to drive, tailed by the page.

Lene sighed again as Ares turned around to return to their table. She waited for an explanation, but Ares simply gestured to her piling bouquets. “Need a help carrying those?”

“... Ares,” she started, folding her arms.

“Or maybe you don’t.”

“Ares.”

“... Yeah?” he replied, a bit awkward this time realizing the traces of fight urge still left their footprints in his tone now that he had the chance to talk privately with her.

“What was that?” she inquired.

“What was what, my little chit-chat with the ladies’ man there?” he chuckled, rather off-tune but it did not stop Lene to yank his hair as usual. “Alright. So I take that you disapproved of me.”

“Not actually, no, it’s just—“

“No? Then I have nothing else to answer,” the Black Knight shrugged. “And I was not annoyed.”

“Really? Everyone will agree that they thought you were about to punch him,” Lene rolled her eyes again.

“How could I be annoyed since he was so funny like that?” Ares cocked an eyebrow. “His eyes have sailed, he said—alas, eyes are taking a side job as a sailor too now?”

“Gods,” Lene muttered. “You are _angry_.”

“No.”

“Okay, you were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Don’t try to deflect,” Lene rolled her eyes again.

“You underestimated me considering I let you pinch me slightly lower than usual.”

“… You don’t mean… wait, s-so I touched your butt!”

“Almost.”

“Oh—my—oh, by gods,” Lene brought her hands over her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“No need.”

“No need?”

“No? Because it’s you, so I don’t care.”

“What is that supposed to mean? I swear to God I’ll bludgeon you for teasing me.“

“What a charming apology,” Ares chuckled again.

“Bludgeon it is then,” Lene sighed. “Come here so I can do that!”

“Then perhaps grow a few more centimeters before threatening me,” he commented, giving the dancer instant red face. “And here I thought you liked such speech style. Charming?”

“Ares,” Lene muttered, her tone bore a warning.

“Alright,” he relented. “I did not deflect. You did. Or rather, you did me.”

“You can’t fool me. Your eyes alone said you would love to break his nose there,” Lene sighed again, even more exasperated this time. “So what was it all about?”

“Bold of you to assume that is the _only_ thing I could think of,” Ares retorted. “That rich boy walked in like he owned this place, acted like he could buy anything his eyes landed on, including you. A little boy as a page who is not even taller than the coat he was carrying, with an old man as a valet who opened the carriage door for him—yet you still could not tell?”

“Tonight you are annoying.”

“So I was great on the other nights?”

“Why do you have this tendency of saying the _darndest_ things with a straight face?” Lene was truly exasperated that her hands mercilessly landed on top of his head, ruffling his golden mane. In a short time she succeeded turning his hair into a bird’s nest, and she would have laughed if Ares was not _this_ confusing and aggravating tonight.

“I reacted like that knowing you usually dislike such audacity,” he responded with a heavy voice. “Maybe I was wrong there since you liked it when he did those things.”

“You and I know well titled heads tend to be eccentric,” Lene thought a little bit. “And I simply thought it would be too early to just hammer him like that…” she glared when Ares scoffed cynically, “don’t do that.”

“And where was that line when he cornered you?”

“Ares.”

“Lene. What now, are we going to play calling each other’s name until the morning comes?” Ares merely shrugged, lifting a hand to comb his hair with his fingers. He made one swift, simple movement to swipe the unruly hair Lene did him, and it did not take long for those golden locks to return to their initial state. “And try harder next time.”

“Whatever then, Sir Nice Hair,” Lene huffed, gathering all the flowers she received into one big assemblage, pulling a knot out of a ribbon encircling her left arm to get the flowers fixed into one giant bouquet. “I’m going home.”

“I will help you.”

Ares’ response was eager and quicker than ever, and Lene really wished she would know why. “I can carry these all by myself.”

“You can ride with me as usual because it’s already dark outside,” he said.

“With that urge to fight and your confusing attitude, maybe you need to cool your head a little,” she replied, fixing her mantle as she spoke. “But if you want to help me… then perhaps can you please take that extra bouquet Lord Paris gave me? I think I’ll need two hands to carry this fantastic assemblage,” she sighed adoringly at the flowers.

“No.”

“Okay, then I’ll take it myself while you help me with the big one?”

“So that means that bouquet will be the only one you have in your hands? No.”

“Gods, I’m so confused now that you are so confusing!” Lene raised her voice. “Alright, I get it, I get it. Little Ares the Mighty Lion is too good, too strong, too manly for flowers and getting annoyed because of… what, sand castle rivalry now that a new boy is moving into town?”

“Flowers are not so bad than having a room which smells like a horse’s ass.”

“Then here you go,” without hesitation Lene shoved Paris’ bouquet into his palms. “Why, I should have done that so we could be done here faster,” she headed to the door, tilting her head with yet another eye-rolling moment when she heard Ares growling behind her.

“You are noisy.”

 _The hell is happening,_ the frustrated dancer pondered because Ares just glared at the barkeep, who harmlessly teased him for tailing behind her with a flower bouquet from her newest admirer. “Ares,” she warned him again. Why Ares was so cranky tonight, again she did not know. But one thing she could be sure of was that she was confused, and Ares did not look any better himself since he looked pretty confused despite his display of blatant annoyances. Lene began to wonder if she should stop pulling Ares’ hair when his sharp voice startled her.

“What? I said I’d shut him up, not flay him and hang his skin like a washed blanket while his corpse is burning to crisp!”

“Y-you would do _WHAT,_ Black Knight?” the barkeep paled so much he nearly wetted his pants.

“Ares, you are ridiculously confusing,” Lene turned around, dropping the flowers at the counter. Everyone gulped again when she did not hesitate to approach him, her boots making firm noises when they collided with the wooden floor. Her hands were firmly planted on her hips, and her ponytail swung as she tilted her head to face off against the Black Knight’s towering height. “Well, an explanation, perhaps, for scaring the _shit_ out of everyone?”

“Not even you could make me. Fight me first.”

“Alright, you asked for it!” she huffed impatiently. What happened to the usually-guarded Ares tonight? Was this even her Ares—the Ares she knew, the indifferent Ares who was usually good at keeping his bloodlust contained unless Mystletainn was unsheathed in a life-or-death scenario? If she did not know Ares better, she would have thought Ares was eager to find some sorry fellow’s ass to kick just because he was in a bad mood. People waited nervously, and Lene just wanted to facepalm again. Great, now if Ares sadistically joked that he planned on massacring the entire bar-goers there, people would not doubt he would and they would disperse like wildfire. Lene looked around, sensing people’s anxiety. If the lion had stopped heeding his beast-tamer there, then what would make him stop? And it was just Lene, the dancer who was short by a head compared to the feared Black Knight and not even a warrior!

Ares merely glanced indifferently. _Of course_ he did not actually mean challenging Lene into a fight. But his frustration blossomed because despite what he displayed tonight, truth was he still did not know what it actually was which prompted him to feel sourer than usual. Perhaps Paris’ antics brushed his masculine ego a little bit, but people disrespecting him just because he was a mercenary or assuming he was delicate was less than unusual. After all, citizens of Darna tended to be the ones who knew who he was, including reputation which tailed his name. Outside of Darna people might hear of the Black Knight, but chances were they hardly even knew he was the very person they talked about.

Now that Lene approached him, Ares wondered again why he felt even more disturbed by the fact that Lene was dead set to tame him like this. Did he not tell her that he found Paris unsavory, if not odd? Did he not lay out his reasons as usual, understanding well that Lene would never be deterred with a sharp _because I told you so,_ a trait she also despised from men who had the tendency to overlord others? Then why was she angry _at him_?

“Yield,” she said, barking a command. Speaking of ‘asking for a fight’, alright—Ares immediately regretted his decision to taunt her that way, albeit it being actually playful. Now that she looked like she was eager to defy—no, _fight him_ —there was no way in hell he could win this one.

“Or?”

… But gods be damned even more if Ares was not stubborn.

“Or this!”

Everyone’s eyes bulged again when Lene, unhesitatingly, raised an arm and got Ares’ left ear in her grasp. She fucking pinched the ear she just caught, twisting it that even Ares was so caught off-guard that his face silently pleaded for a quarter. “Hnggh—I get it—“

“Then let’s be off for now,” Lene mercilessly glared at him again when Ares let out a soft sigh. She dragged Ares with her in a comical manner, giving a slight bow to the bar-goer as if apologizing for him before taking all the flowers she had left at the counter.

Needless to say, that night the bar-goers began to question themselves about feebleness.

* * *

 

Despite what was said and done, Paris indeed stayed in Darna for some more time just like what he informed Lene. And the news about his stay also traveled through Javarro’s group of mercenaries, with the Chief himself receiving a letter delivered to him that morning.

“Ares,” he called to the courtyard. Their group’s headquarter was located pretty close to the river. Although it was a modest compound with essentials such as rooms and a place to make food—no, not in the slightest Ares would call that a kitchen, at least compared to Lene’s—the headquarter had a spacious courtyard making a rotund with horse stables fencing it from the inner side. The spacious courtyard also made it easier to be converted into a training ground, and that afternoon Ares had been occupying a space where his training took longer than usual.

Ares looked up, setting aside a wooden stick he was using to hit a target dummy he erected. Wiping his face with a rag, he saw Javarro waving an envelope at him—a gesture he understood too well. A client had placed a request, and thinking he could ride _and_ fight people out there somehow made him feel cathartic. He basked in such thought, eagerly steering his paces to upstairs where Javarro was waiting him at the pavilion. Perhaps too enthusiastic indeed…

“Javarro,” he nodded when they faced each other. “Mission?”

“Most likely,” Javarro simply grinned. “This just came straight out of Bramsel’s household.”

“What does he need this time, someone to kill spiders for him?” Ares responded. He had been taking requests from rich barons, that was sure. And given Darna’s situation being part of the Yied Desert regular armies and lords tended to reluctant to touch, mercenaries like his group had long fulfilled the need of the militia the area needed. Well, Bramsel did not strike him as special, though—the Count fancied luxurious goods, and sometimes Ares thought if he could be lulled into not feeding the population where his jurisdiction supposed to lie in exchange of beautifying his manor even more, he might just do that.

“Perhaps?” Javarro smirked. “There are rumors that disgruntled masses start to rebel.”

“Great, now I’m off to kill morons who can’t read a map,” Ares replied sourly. “Why would they want this place anyway? That Bramsel was an ass just like any other royal out there, but he was mostly toothless if there was no Grannvale Empire ambassador he could kiss at the feet. And I can hardly think why Emperor Arvis’ majestic royal ass would care to even go here.”

“A royal calling other royals an ass. What has the world come into,” Javarro sneered.

“Oblivion,” Ares replied, for a moment his eyes flashed scorching fire. “Since these so-called other royals ate each other’s flesh and drove at least one kid to be fatherless.”

“Oi, Ares.”

“I know, Chief,” the Black Knight stated, his tone even sourer. “So, what does Bramsel need?”

“It’s not Bramsel,” the mercenary chief replied with a rare thoughtful tone. “A guest staying with him has specifically requested for you. A pretty odd one, but then again royals are weird.”

Only then it dawned on Ares that the Acalve asshole was staying at Bramsel’s. _“No,”_ he said, his tone was that of total disbelief. “Not that player-boy.”

“So you two have met?” Javarro raised an eyebrow. “Well then, go meet your fucking friend, duh. This letter only asked your time to be his company for a ride.”

“Ride,” Ares spelled it. “And where are his loyal, old and underage attendants?”

“Where the fuck was the Ares I know then?” Javarro rolled his eyes. “Get your shit together. It’s a client, and since when did you even have that much of a say in regards to one? This has to be the tamest job that ever landed in my hands—this lordling only wanted a company to ride Darna. Just your luck, isn’t it? Safe, clean, and paid well. Come on. You _know_ you ride well.”

“Just my luck indeed,” Ares replied sarcastically, his lips pursed into a tight smile.

* * *

 

The sun had tilted, giving the impression of a peaceful, cooler afternoon by the time Ares arrived at Count Bramsel’s castle. It was pretty much his very first time of being there, and he had to admit the rumors about Bramsel’s taste for arts and exquisite stuff happened to be true, although—if he had to admit something else—nearly everything was too tacky for his eyes. Ares wondered if Bramsel would just go for any highest-priced-anything he could get his hands on regardless of what was what, and the sight of luxurious red velvet meeting bold violet was too much that he thought he was almost personally offended. That prompted him to smile a little bit—Lene could eat her own words now that he got to be artsy for feeling almost personally victimized by Bramsel’s poor choices.

The Count was no better than the tacky décors themselves. Bramsel had dressed himself in an elegant robe more befitting of an exalted member of a respected court official in Arvis’ throne room, but with his questionable taste and color coordination, even the clothing appeared too forceful for his liking. The Count enthusiastically shook his hand, blabbering some things about how he had heard of him so much that he could not wait to meet him in person, and Ares had to remind him again that he was not a part of sworn standing army, and regardless of what was what he still worked for Javarro who managed all the contracts their group received.

“I have no idea you are this young,” Bramsel said when Ares did not say anything more. “Why, it seems nearly everyone I got to talk with pictured you like some sort of a merciless murderer.”

“Only when the job is calling for it,” Ares finally replied. “Which I believe is not the case today.”

“Ha! Right, right. My guest is waiting there, you see,” he gestured to the garden before whispering, “make him happy, will you? His father trades with me. Sure you would be so noble as wanting to see our beautiful Darna getting the extra revenue it deserves?”

“I have no idea about it, milord. That is _your_ job,” he almost spat. “The trade, of course.”

Thus Bramsel got the first taste of the Black Knight’s uncompromising sharpness as he did his first impression of him regarding the warrior’s looks. Then gods be damned again because even Bramsel would not dare to think Ares was delicate after seeing how rough he could be.

Paris smiled when he saw Ares’ figure lingering closer. He was ready himself, waiting on him with a beautiful white horse. An elaborate decorated saddle was fixed on the beautiful mount, and Paris’ appearance did not disappoint just like how he appeared to Darnaians at the bar. He wore a green hat, decorated with golden-colored feathers to shield his head from the desert heat. His riding suit matched the color of his hat, except that his breeches were of light brown color and his boots were black. His hands were protected with a pair of light beige gloves, and even under that hat his dark hair was neatly fixed as his green eyes pierced through the scenery around him to find Ares.

And Ares nearly forgot another thing which made him feel rather uneasy to be in the same space with Paris—the inquiring look, or rather, _appraising_ look, which made him feel like a caged lion in a circus arena. Trying to rationalize himself, Ares pictured Lene criticizing him for bearing funny judgments against Paris. Then he reminded himself that, just like she said, rich folks had a tendency to be eccentric and Paris might have that look for being a businessman.

“Lord Paris?” he called, and not sure what to feel when the curve on Paris’ lips extended when he addressed the nobleman as such.

“Hello there, Sir Ares,” he nodded, acknowledging his arrival. “Here you go, for the Chief.”

“We have not ridden yet,” Ares commented stiffly.

“Oh, come on,” Paris shoved a money pouch into his idle open palm, and Ares rigidly tucked it into the inner pocket under his overdress, protected with the black cape he wore. Something felt even more off the more Paris acted friendly to him, which confused the warrior even more. “There you go. I paid what I took. Your time… or that little boy’s.”

 _This asshole,_ Ares contemplated again. “I am merely surprised, considering you don’t seem to like us that much,” he said bluntly, hopping onto his own mustang as he spoke.

“Us—as in?” Paris followed with a riding whip in hand. “Our acquaintanceship? Your ilk? Or…”

“Or?”

“You, and the dancer?”

Ares was baffled where he was, but Paris clicked his tongue, prompting the horse to gallop. As Ares ordered his own horse to follow him, he nearly tumbled when realizing he had accidentally grabbed Mystletainn instead of his own horse rein, much to his own chagrin let alone for it to happen in Bramsel’s presence. He hardly paid attention when Bramsel wished for a nice ride as the horses threw a handful of dust at his face.

Paris rode, and Ares caught up with him at the market. Suddenly his horse made a stop, which nearly startled Ares’ mustang enough to unbalance him off the saddle. Ares pulled the rein, with the distressed horse neighing loudly and lifting its front two feet. “Sssh, good boy,” he whispered, running his fingers through its mane while his other hand put more strength into the rein he was holding. When the horse began to calm down, he shouted, confronting Paris. “What was that for?!”

“Ah, these potteries,” Paris merely gestured to the ground where various vases were displayed. “Are these Darna’s specialties? Perhaps I should take home with me for my father!”

“You—“ Ares dismounted, walking to where Paris had stopped his horse. “If you wanted these, you could just say and not making a sudden move like that.”

“Well!” Paris replied cheerfully. “If only I knew you would get them for me, why, sure!”

Just then Ares realized what actually had happened, including why something about Paris gave him an uneasy feeling. Too late now—Paris got him without having to raise a sword or ball a fist. And he still bargained the vase for Paris despite starting to notice his... antics.  

“I know you will make a great company!” Paris cheerfully took a wrapped vase Ares handed to him, still on horseback. Oh, if only he could see the tidal wave inside the Black Knight’s chest… “You did not discipline your horse?”

“I never made a sudden startling movement in a public place,” Ares responded.

“Sudden?” Paris clasped his chin like he was thinking of something important, “ah, but I was merely arching down to appreciate those vases. Wasn’t it you who stopped behind me?”

 _This asshole—_ Ares reflexively balled his fist in his pocket. “Milord, I do not whip my horse,” he replied as if he was slowly laying down the words, one by one. “And my horse hardly needs a louder voice to heed me rather than I should against assholes.”

“Assholes?” Paris glanced at him again. “You like to use colorful language, Sir Ares.”

“Trust me, it pales before yours,” Ares smirked. “And I suppose, as much as this dancer you tried talking me about despised a sword, she would not be happy if this market turned into a giant mess just because of a careless rider.”

“I agree!” Paris merely nodded. “Which is why _you_ should be careful!”

_THIS ASSHOLE—_

“Ah, speaking of which. Do you think she will appreciate this one?” Paris gestured to a pair of bespoke ribbons, made of the finest silk and decorated with the best elaborated embroidery boutique-hoppers ever laid their eyes upon. The ribbons were of gold color, and judging from the sparkles under the sun and how they were a bit heavier for hair ornaments Ares had suspected the threads were indeed pure gold and the little sparkles there meant there were actual precious stones if not jewels being sewn into the ribbons.

Ares swallowed, suddenly feeling the sands to be trapping and the air around him suffocating. No, he was not sick. He just held his horse from kicking the _shit_ out of everything in its presence, and he was not yet tired even after spending time at the training ground. “I don’t know,” he replied in all honesty, not knowing what else to say. But there was a bit of this poking feeling he could not translate—somewhere deep in the corner of his heart—which demanded him to give Paris a finger for even asking that. But why? And what for? Lene did not seem to share his opinion about Paris, and often times she made a better judge of personhood and characters more than he could ever dream of. Perhaps he really was only in a bad mood. Perhaps he really should not be so suspicious of the nobleman. Perhaps he could stop feeling so… _confused._

“Then I’m getting this pair. Will look better on her than those uh… cheap light blue ones she had on her the other night,” Paris gestured to the seller.

 _That’s my gift._ “Do you do this often, gifting expensive things to the ladies you barely know?”  

“Ah, Sir Ares. What good can some good money do if not to beautify the beautiful?” Paris shrugged casually. “Rather than that, _you_ don’t do this often?”

“No?”

“No? Then we really should talk more, because that’s not what I heard of mercenaries and their life styles so far!” Paris warmly patted his shoulders, but to Ares the touch felt venomous and those fingers sharply-bony he nearly thought his skin would peel off.

“Lord Paris,” Ares responded with a solemn tone as if warning him, “I do not buy women.”

“I’m not saying the dancer is a cheap harlot, Sir Ares.”

“… What?”

“What? Is that not what you are implying?” Paris merely cocked an eyebrow.

“No,” Ares replied, his annoyance slowly burning into a silent fury as he spoke. “You know well that is not what I wanted to say. How dare you putting words in my mouth like that.”

“I know well? Know well of what? You are the one who said all these funny things while I simply looked around to see what I could bring back for Miss Lene.”

“And why would that be a sincere gesture, considering you are used to do this?” it nearly took everything in him to not just start a fight right there, and it… confused him.

“Ah, but why would that not be! Please, we know we are different, so you should not envy me for the things _you_ cannot do,” there was a sparkle in Paris’ eyes like he just gloated. “And let’s continue riding, Sir Ares. I believe she appreciates a clean face as much as a clean sword…” arching his back to whisper again like he did at the bar, he added, “I’m not going to fight you here. So you may as well die mad about it, sellsword.”

“I am flexible,” the Black Knight projected the same dominating aura he was subjected to.

“Such bloodlust,” Paris winced, “… money dog.”

“My apologies,” Ares smirked a feral smile, “I mean I don’t mind a fistfight as much as you do.”

“That is ridiculous. I have no taste of violence.”

“Bicep muscles cannot be purchased,” Ares merely shrugged, keeping his tone normal. “Neither can the knack of subduing people through the easiness of the tongue or employing the old and the underage. I know you are trained. Give up this façade already.”

“Alright, alright, you got me. Even if that is the case, so what?” Paris yawned. “I thought you were interesting at first, but… well, Sir Ares, I am not the one with a bloodstained sword. And later tonight I’ll see if she is willing to spend the night with me after I bask in yet another marvel that is her dances. And you are probably going off somewhere to sate your sword, how is that even compatible with her world? You might as well stop before you humiliate yourself.”

“… Are you saying I can’t see her anymore or what?”

“What? Why would I do that?” Paris chuckled. “Given your astute sense of awareness, I don’t think deep down inside you are not aware. Don’t tell me you can tell trained biceps more than you can your own thoughts?”

“I’m not well-versed in the language of flowers.”

“You must be well-aware that you and her do not match,” Paris went on.

“And you think _you_ fill the gap perfectly?” The reply came out quicker than he had planned—and well, did Ares sorely regret it. He was supposed to out-asshole the asshole, not slowly descending into one in the process. He did tell Lene he was the mean one of them both, yet countering Paris like this was unlike any other battles he had seen before. Again, somehow he found himself thrown in between—wanting to deck Paris, wanting to let the asshole finish his asshole argument too, while trying to find a good answer as to why he was so frustrated with this lordling’s antics. He was confused—yes. And on top of that, there was anger.

“Again, I did not say that. I thank you for thinking highly of me, though,” Paris’ smile did not change, and somehow Ares thought—well, perhaps it would, with the help of knuckles—

Ares snickered.

“I am talking to you,” Paris moved closer.

“I am so honored,” Ares stayed where he stood.

“You should be. Is that not the reason why you followed her around like the loyal guard dog you are?” Paris hissed. “You are there watching her, ready to clear out anything any potential danger or threat she may face just like what you did to the loudmouthed guy next to your table.”

“So you have been keeping eyes on me as well? Impressive.”

“Or you would rather be compared to a pet lion?” Paris glared at him this time. “Caged, muzzled, tailing behind in exchange of some love kernels? Is that not a sad life to live, Sir Ares, thinking if you stand by her side as a loyal protector, bearing fangs to whoever trying to get close to her, eventually she will notice you enough that she is throwing herself in your arms.”

“Sad life?” Ares shrugged again. “I hardly ever heard of anyone worship the life they are living after witnessing everything they had burning due to titled heads pulling strings from behind.”

“And I am one, while all you have is one sword.”

“If that keeps the lady safe, I’m pretty satisfied.”

“Formidable aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve invited you to judge for yourself three times by now in case you are curious.”

Paris laughed. “So now you are implying I am a threat to Miss Lene. How curious! And what will happen next? That she will feed her loyal pet lion because supposedly you have done nothing but be her fence against threats—or so you’d like to believe! What if you actually deprive her from happiness in the process?”

“… What?”

“Yeah? What if nobody ever got close to her so far knowing well you’d be there barking if not roaring like the loyal pet you are?” Paris shook his head, realizing what he just said more or less caused Ares a tremor. “You never asked what she wanted, hmmm?”

“As if you would, from what I saw the other night.”

“She is just not used to these gestures. Why, I won’t be surprised considering it’s just you who stay by her side all these times.”

“Get to the point.”

“She is not yours, Mr. Mercenary.”

“Neither is she yours, my lord.”

“Or do you want to bet?” Paris chuckled again, enjoying how sour Ares looked at that point, or how deep he had frowned. “I can make her happy. I can offer her a better life than what she has right now. A secure life with a sense of permanence, one where not even the desert’s unkind wilderness can touch… neither can the smell of blood from a mercenary’s blade tip.”

“Good luck then,” Ares waved his hand dismissively. “Is that it? You are ridiculous.”

“I don’t need that luck, Sir Ares. You will, however.” Paris’ smile returned. “I have my honor too. I am not going to wage a war against you without warning. That will not be chivalrous of me.”

“Ah, yes. Chivalrous indeed it is to win a woman’s attention with money.”

“Money? It is just a tool. I am offering her stability. Something you can never!” Paris’ eyes glinted. “And definitely I’m not going to war without warning you—otherwise whose blood I can feast upon if you are not going to be there to witness your own destruction?”

“I figured. Yet you kept your intention away from her? Honorable!” Ares replied sarcastically.

“Well, just like you trying to not start a fight in her presence, I suppose?” Paris’ laughter returned, more vicious than ever. “You really are lacking some sense of awareness there, are you not? I don’t even care how much you actually like her or not. All I am saying is that I can do better than whatever you offered her so far, and wouldn’t it please her to get out of this limited city, free of all the struggles she needed to survive? A beautiful room to rest in with people attending her—something you can never give. Just like what you will never be able to give that boy regardless of how heroic your speech against me or how sharp your eyes pierced mine.”

Ares found himself tongue-tied.

“So, the ribbons, please,” Paris gestured to the seller again, who had been anxiously watching the argument back and forth. “If you are guard dog, a pet lion—whatever—then act like it. You only need food to survive, gold coins to mine, and a sword to drink blood; then tell me, why should it be any different when the lady is concerned? What can you do? What can you give?”

A pet lion, Ares pondered again. Probably he was. He hardly ever cared what Lene actually compared him to, but Paris’ words barged into his mind, echoing like a loud call in a dark cave. Was he… the obstacle to Lene’s well-being without even realizing it? And perhaps the asshole was right. Wait—what if the asshole was right all along? It was not like he never actually thought about it—during his pondering moments, sometimes he wondered what would become of him if the Lionheart was still alive and House Nordion intact. He probably would not even wield Mystletainn, and probably would not be this sharp in regards to how loud his sword could bark, honed only struggle for survival ever could.

… And then her. She deserved better, that was for sure. No more anxious nights with hundreds of rehearsing ‘what if’ scenarios. No more polite answers and charming smiles she had to trade in exchange for some sense of security. No more days of meticulously planning for meals, altering clothes—or so he was told—to save money. No more of stealing rest days for dancing until her ankles felt like breaking. No need for the buddy-system she established with him—

Paris was still waiting, and Ares had to concede by silently returning to mount his horse and raced him from behind after that. He was sure that he wanted Lene’s well-being perhaps more than what he had in mind pertaining to his own, yet even now that Paris had openly confronted him and signaled what he _truly_ wanted, Ares could not find an answer as to why the idea of Paris being the one who would free Lene out of this misery disgruntled him this much.

His head was full as much as it was blank that confusion might be the only suitable way to phrase it. Keeping his horse with Paris’ again, Ares noticed Paris did not pull any other antics throughout the day after saying those things.

* * *

 

Lene frowned.

She had arrived at the mercenary compound, only to be informed that Ares was not there. The sky was about to turn colors when she arrived, and Javarro did a poor job of not trying to sound pleased because Ares had gone to do an easy mission which paid well.  

“There is such a thing?” she asked, fixing the collar of her mantle. She wondered if ‘easy’ was even a legit way to word what Ares did for a living, but Javarro’s good mood at least helped her presence there. It was no secret that Javarro did not seem to like her maintaining a relation with Ares, and she could not ask for the impossible. After all she already made him to show where his room was the other day.

“Apparently so? You are a dancer. Sure you have seen some eccentric patrons,” Javarro grinned. “Bramsel’s guest wanted a riding company. Wise choice. I can imagine riding with Bramsel might be boring. That too if he can even ride on his own.”

“Bramsel’s… guest,” Lene bit her lips. “And he specifically asked for… Ares?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong, lass? Ha! Not jealous, aren’t you?”

“Hardly, Chief,” Lene scoffed. “If you saw what happened the other night, you’d wonder why that guest would even want to be near Ares ever again.”

“So? It’s a job, I’m getting paid so I have no problem,” Javarro merely shrugged. “And perhaps it’s good for the boy to mingle with other men. You’ve been at his tail more often lately, I wouldn’t like the idea of him getting soft.”

Lene made a scowling gesture. “Barbaric.”

“Well sorry then, Princess,” Javarro sneered, proceeding to walk to the gates when sounds of a galloping horse could be heard approaching the compound. “Here he comes. Oi, Ares! Great day today, eh? Gotta be better than hanging out with a girl all the time, I imagine.”

Lene followed Javarro from behind when she heard him mentioning the name. The horse made its way into the compound, and two other mercenaries who acted as door guards for the day closed the door again when the mount was already inside.

And true, it was Ares. He gave a slight nod as if just to tell Javarro he was back while his hands were fixed on the rein. From on top of the horse he saw Lene with the Chief, and the dancer welcomed him with a warm smile when their eyes met. Usually the smile would make him feel more peaceful, but this time he’d rather return to an empty compound, with cold shoulders if not harsh, coarse men waiting for him.

Ares dismounted, withdrawing a pouch from under his overdress and put it on Javarro’s palm. “Mission accomplished,” he said dryly. “I’ll return the horse to the stable now.”

“Sure, sure! Treat the beauty with the luxury it deserves, my boy,” Javarro grinned, patting the money pouch he just received. “This one’s rather heavy, aye? Such a royal ride there then.”

 _The luxury a beauty deserves…_ Ares closed his eyes, remembering what Paris told him earlier. His eyes went back to Lene, who was still there and eagerly waiting for him to be vacant so they could talk. … Well, at least that was what he thought, judging from the way she looked at him or what her expression tried to convey. Ares did not realize he had spared a faint melancholic smile when he averted his eyes from Lene’s face. _I don’t need to play guess and it is a relief—_

“You returned!” Lene addressed him cheerfully, following his steps while Javarro retreated upstairs.

 _—But for how long?_ “I did,” the Black Knight answered simply. “Do not follow me.”

 _Huh?_ “Oh, I was just…”

“I’m heading to the stable. It will be dirty and I’m covered in dust,” Ares responded mindlessly. What he did not expect was that it only made Lene’s smile grew warmer and her footsteps even more eager to catch up with him. Ares let out a sigh. Why must it be this hard? And why did he feel harder to leave or tell her off the kinder she was to him? So… confusing.

“Are you tired?” she asked softly, catching the sound he made.

“Not really. Javarro was right, it’s just a ride,” Ares kept his tone indifferent. He did not say anything as he ushered the horse to the stable, and he still did not say anything when he poked some hays with a pitchfork to arrange them for his horse.

“Let me do that!” Lene laughed when he procured a brush for the horse.

“No,” he tried to object, but the dancer had snatched the brush off his hand while sticking her tongue at him. He understood that Lene wanted to get him into their usual banter, but this time he was not really in the mood for it. Paris’ words echoed in his mind exactly as she kept interacting with him, and he glanced at her, who was brushing his horse’s mane while whispering kind words to the animal.

“Good boy,” Lene whispered, running the brush back and forth against the animal’s mane. “Strong, strong boy. Nice boy. With beautiful hair too! Are you sure you are not Ares’ brother?” what she just said reflexively made him snort for holding back laughter, and she did hear it just in time when he struggled to return to his initial expression. Lene tilted her head at him, chuckling as her eyes sparkled. “Finally!”

“Finally what?” Ares responded dryly with a disinterested gesture.

“Finally you reacted! You looked brooding.”

 _—Ah._ “Did I?”

“Yes! Your eyes looked very dark.”

“Eyes, dark? Are you getting poetic too now?” he brushed it off, but she shook her head.

“I don’t mean your eye color, you know it,” she stopped brushing the horse for a moment. “It was as if you… well, nothing happened between you and Paris, I hope.”

“No,” Ares replied softly as his eyes evaded hers.

“Are you sure?”

“Why is this concern all of a sudden?” he took the brush from her and began to continue where she stopped doing. “Wouldn’t it be just typical of men to occasionally clash with each other?”

“You are not that kind of man.”

Ares stopped brushing. Her eyes were determined, and her tone was as firm as her legs were planted on the ground. “Then perhaps you need...” he pondered a bit, “… to see more men.”

“What?” Lene stopped for a second, but her smile emerged again. “Oh, Ares. You truly don’t suggest me that? I’ve had my share of it, you know it too. Aha, don’t tell me you said that just so I’d be annoyed and left you alone with your horse? Or... you are jealous because your horse did not mind me brushing it! My, you are such a cute cub!”

“No. I don’t mean that kind,” he kept brushing. “I was thinking of the refined ones.”

“What…?” Lene frowned.

“Well, I was merely thinking,” he put down the brush to scoop some water from a big wooden container inside. “That you may want to have a better... companion. It’s getting colder lately.” _And someone refined can provide a warm house with warm meals to take care of you._

“What, because you are dirty for working on your horse?”

 _Bless her._ “Probably,” Ares merely shrugged, taking his gloves off as he proceeded to roll his sleeves to bathe his horse. “Stay away from me, Lene.”

She paused.

He cursed his wording. Well, he meant it, but not like he wanted it out like this—“... Or you will get dirty too,” he added, not missing a beat to cover what he was actually thinking.

“Ares.”

“I don’t want to risk your dress.”

“Ares, dirty clothes can be washed,” Lene responded tenderly, and Ares was not even sure if he had to curse himself then compared to now. Then it dawned on him that he probably could never peel her off his side like that—not when she was the one who wanted to go herself. ... And probably he did not actually mind her company that much.  He could shoo anyone he wanted, and he had proven himself enough that he was good at it. And yet—

She was coming closer, and Ares pondered what he should do next even if it was merely to respond to her chit-chat. “Were you looking for me?” he asked.

“Yes. Remember what I said about edible flowers?” she grinned.

“... And I suppose, his flowers were there too.”

“No,” Lene simply shook her head. “I did not put them in the food!”

“No?” Ares cocked an eyebrow. “... Perhaps you fancy them in a vase then.”

“Nooo. Well, wouldn’t you want to find out?” she held up yet another wooden box in a playful manner so he could see it.

 _No?_ “No. I’m dirty. I’ll only touch that when I’m done cleaning myself.”

“If that’s the case...” she thought a bit before procuring a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress. “Here, take this! You can wipe your hands with it.”

“No.”

“... Oh,” Lene paused again. “Or do you... hate that I came here to look for you? You said next time back then, so I thought it truly meant... next time. And despite what happened the other night you still helped me carrying the flowers and giving me a ride, so...”

“I do not hate you,” Ares sighed. “As if I could. Not with you liking to maim my hair.”

“You still can, you know,” she pouted.

“Then I don’t hate you.”

“Really? So why?”

“Because,” Ares set the water vessel aside, grabbing a clean dry rag to wipe the water off his mount now. “... If I touch your handkerchief, then it will get dirty as well.”

If only Ares could see how touched Lene was by his answer. On the other hand the dancer felt rather sad because again Ares displayed a servitude demeanor, the _I don’t care whatever happens to me_ behavior she criticized him about. And such reply only made her walk up even closer, and...

Ares’ tilted his head when he felt a soft touch graced his left shoulder. He turned around only to see Lene eagerly patting his shoulder with her handkerchief, all smiling as she opened his hand and made him grasp it. “... There. Since it just got a bit dusty, you might as well use it!”

“You just never give up,” he huffed, but his voice was equally tender if not even softer.

“Not with someone this stubborn nearby,” she chuckled. Ares shook his head again, but he did not make any further objection. In a rather obedient manner—which made Lene’s laughter louder, knowing well Ares just did that on purpose to mess with her because she called him stubborn—Ares simply took her handkerchief and used it to wipe his face and palms. He then informed her that he did plan on making a quick bath after tending the horse, and she asked if he would actually return or she should just put the food in his room.

“If you plan on sharing that with everyone else I guess you can put it at the main hall.”

“No—no, I don’t want to!”

“Lene?”

“I mean—“ she deferred, “I only promised to make you cry for being forced to have flowers. W-what if this tastes bad? I have no plan on poisoning an entire squad.”

“But only one man?” he could not resist smirking.

“It’s not like your stomach is not as stubborn as you are,” Lene stuck a tongue at him.  “If this is the same Ares who emptied half of a soup pot in one take and could not care less having the similar simple-seasoned grilled meat every day with the Chief, I guess it will be safe.”

“Perhaps,” Ares’ reply was rather taunting. “So if you’d rather wait for me—“

“Yes, of course! Thank you!! ... Wait, where?” Lene stopped, asking sheepishly because she had been too openly enthusiastic that she forgot where.

“... My room again?”

“You mean it?”

“If you don’t mind,” Ares replied softly. “When I’m done, I will knock. It’s lockable, and I suppose I can...” he took off his belt, “... ask you to guard Mystletainn for me for a little bit?”

“You said you never let this out of sight,” she responded, almost breathlessly.

“Right. But I have no reason to when I know everything is safe,” he nodded again, and his eyes followed her when she slowly climbed the stairs to reach the pavilion where his room was. There was something he cherished that night somehow—the fact that she was there right after Paris forcefully drafted him into this odd rivalry he hardly ever thought before, or that her gestures towards him staying the same as usual. Or somehow having her in the sanctuary that was his room where nobody else would dare enough to enter, something reassuring which made him feel sure to ask her setting Mystletainn back to his room so he could bathe. Or, if he was to be honest with himself, the cheekiness he felt when she said she did not use Paris’ flowers in the food she brought for him, although the little delight confused him at the same time.

Likewise, Lene’s gaze trailed upon Ares as he left. She held his sword tightly against her with two hands like she wanted to make sure it was totally safe and secure as he entrusted. Ares hardly ever did that before, and although traces of the other night’s ferocity seemed to have disappeared completely, she wondered if Ares truly meant what he said. He was unusually quiet when she tried to get him speak of Paris, and he looked pretty shaken when he returned.

_But if he wanted to get rid of me then he wouldn’t…_

Lene looked at Mystletainn again. The so-called Demon Sword felt cold in her hands, and she wondered if it was pretty much the same when Ares held it. She imagined how much blood had spilt because of the contracts and requests which bound the wielder, but…

_But this one kept me safe too when time called._

And it was with Mystletainn that she learned to launch a strike with her own sword.

Lene slowly opened the door to Ares’ room. Suddenly everything felt a bit different now that he was not there with her. There was not much in the room besides modest practical furniture, and given the size of the drawers she doubted Ares would have many things to keep with him. The room felt so empty, so lonely, and… it was arranged in a way as if ready to be vacant any day if the one who lived there decided to. That if the place was to burn overnight Ares probably would not even care as long as Mystletainn stood proud against the rubble.

She almost wondered if he did not like having her around, if her arrival actually ruined his life rhythm and the simplicity he was used to having. That nobody would trouble him with decors, accessories, knick-knack anything she got him. Elaborate food, attentions he did not need—

A soft knock startled her so she set Mystletainn over the bed, suddenly feeling so self-conscious as if she had no right to be there, even to sit herself. The whole contemplation was confusing, more so in regards to her own curiosity pertaining Ares. But he was back in the room, looking fresher as if his mind was also cleared the moment he had waters run through him.

Ares simply took a shirt from one of the drawers, his thick towel shielded him from her eyes as he dressed. Eventually drying his damp hair one more time, he made another quick swipe that the strands again fell loosely crowning his head as they would in their initial stance. One glance at a wooden desk and he could see Lene had set the box open, ready for him to eat. And Mystletainn was on the bed, with her standing, waiting for him to try the food.

_In another world where she does not have to feel like she is sharing a seat with a sword…_

He then took the chair he used for the wooden desk and gestured her to sit while he leaned against the desk. Oddly enough he did not feel like getting close to Mystletainn at the moment, and both he and Lene just let the Demon Sword be on the bed.

“So! I got more to spare to use for the food, and I thought, then why not? I tried baking cookies with them today, stored some of the roses for a jam! Which got me wondering, perhaps if you are to wake up early as usual then I’d bring some for you with the bread too for your breakfast! I got creative with these flowers that I don’t really have more to spare for other people besides you. Anyway, have you actually ever eaten edible flowers?”

Ares let Lene talked about the food she made, his eyes again darted on the box. She had made simple puffy shortbread cookies, of white color and bit-sized cute rounded cuts. Flowers he hardly ever knew what was what decorated them as toppings, and took one to taste it.

Surge of fresh sweetness colored his palate right away when the little cookie he picked up went inside his mouth. “This is my first time,” he admitted, this time averting his gaze on her. When the cookie was about to be finished eaten he could not help but taking another one, and another, and another… his eyes bore silent simple questions he could not even convey to her. The cookies felt fine—no, in fact they felt just right blending on his tongue. The right amount of sweetness, the freshness brought by the nice meringue she used, the new wonders which were edible flowers he was exposed to. Everything felt so right, and just…

_So like her, somehow…_

“You look confused,” she honestly pointed it out. “If this is truly your first time, then it should be a yes for the jam! I hope you’re no longer confused after a second try. Um... I gave out Paris' flowers to the herbs grannie. She needed some to complete the rose oil she was making.”

Suddenly Ares realized he did not actually care if Paris’ flowers were in the cookies. He couldn’t care less if she used some bewitching spell to make her cookies taste just right, and all he could say to her was a simple promise that he would return her box and handkerchief the next time they met. Lene did not refuse when Ares offered her a ride home as usual, and they hardly said anything to each other except Lene teasing Ares about finally getting along with Paris.

Ares was still silent when he dropped her off, so Lene thought perhaps he was actually more tired than he admitted. Knowing Ares’ tendencies to hide away his pain and troubles, she decided it might be better to let him alone for the night and see it the next day if he was still in the same gloomy mood as usual.

“The cookies are great,” was the only thing he said before mounting again to return to his compound. “It might have costed you… money.”

“Hmmm? Oh no, the ingredients are just in my typical shopping list! Besides, you know I buy a lot of herbs,” she smiled. “Besides, the flowers are free. And those didn’t take long to make!”

_In another world where she can have all the flowers and cookies she wants…_

Then he knew Paris would be able to send her flowers as much as she ever wished for. And perhaps in this another world, she would not have to engross herself in a small pantry with charcoal and fire wood-powered stove. In a better world she probably would only need to share recipes with a cook or servants who would get dirty, rough, and tired doing all the chores for her while she acted as inspector. In this another world he imagined, she would not be bothered lifting heavy cauldrons because she could buy whatever she wanted when she did not feel like making them herself. And in a better world she would be surrounding herself with the cultured; people who appreciated art and life as much as she did instead of being in the company of a person who barely paid attention to his room and bathed in blood for a living.

Ares bid her goodnight, and as usual reminded her to double-check all her locks and windows. It was also usual for him to do, but Lene wished she had more answers because the way he delivered his greeting felt like he was trying to convey a farewell he was not even sure of.

* * *

 

Lene almost thought she had accidentally made a premonition for everything she thought after the last ride Ares gave her when she came to his compound with the cookies.

Turned out it was rather hard to see Ares again after that, and for some reason he seemed to be constantly unavailable even during the times when he was supposed to be. Lene could only stare when a sympathetic mercenary, after turning her down for the fifth time that week, informed him that Ares was not at the compound, because lately he spent his days outside even when the group did not have a contract to fulfill.

“You don’t think…” she anxiously bit her lips asking, “that he is ill, do you?”

“Ill?” the sympathetic mercenary frowned. “No. He is as prime as ever.”

“Glad to hear that. I was merely thinking…”

_… Did the edible flowers doom him?_

“What, you poisoned him or something?”

“That’s _fucking_ ridiculous,” she shook her head. “… Anyway. If he is alright, then I’m glad. Just… just keep an eye on him, will you please? Despite what appears on the outside, he has this… tendency to bear everything alone no matter how hard it gets to be.”

“Such thoughtfulness,” the mercenary muttered. “I’ll drag his ass to you then for making Darna’s prima donna worrying him like that.”

“I sincerely thank you,” she replied, almost yelling _YES, PLEASE DO_ for a second.

“What’s with these ladies rattling over him like that,” the mercenary mumbled again. “I tell you what, if he can’t appreciate you, I’m single as well, you know.”

“I sincerely thank you again,” Lene smiled charmingly, “but please go fuck yourself.”

“Dammit,” the mercenary huffed, “that lion got his match.”

Lene pretended she did not hear it. But Ares’ disappearance only triggered her curiosity even more, because at least the sympathetic mercenary did not seem to mind that much—so at least he had to be alright. How would she catch his footprints now? And on top of that she was also confused why she was so eager to see him again. She could just drop the food at Javarro’s disposal or leave it with the barkeep. After all Ares was used to check requests for his group with the barkeep because not many people could just contact them like privileged client such as Bramsel. And the poor barkeep was already too deep in his fear towards the Black Knight that he’d just do anything asked whenever the infamous mercenary was involved.

Lene was still deep in her thoughts when a shadow nearly collided with her. She let out a soft gasp out of reflex, but the figure already caught her in time so they—or rather, she—did not fall. “I’m so sorry! I was too deep in my thoughts that I… oh, Lord Paris?”

Right—it was him. Paris nodded at her, seemingly very pleased to be recognized. “I should be the one apologizing, Miss Lene,” he said, with one arm encircling her waist as he ushered her to follow his paces. “It would pain me greatly if I hurt you.”

“Uh—you did not. I was just… startled, yes!” Lene smiled.

“Would you do me a favor by being my dinner guest today?” he asked. “Why, I need to assume responsibility for the distress I have caused you, of course!”

Lene thought again. Paris did frequent the bar to see the dances as often as he was able, just like what he said the night they met. And each time he would make sure his appreciation of her did not go unnoticed. She could barely count how many bouquets Paris had left for her during those days, and for a confusing reason she could not put into words, somehow she did not want Ares to see those bouquets. But she did not have to try concealing them from him because strangely enough Ares did not show up as much as used to, especially when Paris was around. All of these things only confused her more and more, because—well, she thought Ares had made up with Paris! And even if he actually _hated_ Paris, it was unlike him to actually evade an enemy, and judging from the sudden belligerent urge Ares displayed against Paris, she doubted Ares would pass an opportunity to out-alpha the alpha like that.

_Alpha._

That confused her too. The Ares she knew was pretty stubborn once he was dead set doing something—it was not new. That despite not interested to dominate others—or so she thought, Ares carried himself with an aura of confidence, someone who knew what he could do and what he could try. Ares did carry himself with an aura of masculinity too although he could not be bothered to see how manly he was compared to other, mostly rough men around him. Ares would merely bat his eyelashes when men around him started getting obnoxious. He had broken a couple of fights himself or even chastised people for being irresponsible drunkards at the bar, and with people praising and fearing his strength and fortitude, it was not like those who knew him would even think he was weak. So in other words there was no way Ares would feel threatened by Paris… right?

Ares did not like lousy nobles. He hardly had any pleasant opinion regarding a wealthy lifestyle—that too, if he even cared enough to harbor one. And with Paris’ dandy sense, contrasting to Ares’ devil-may-care attitude in regards to his appearance… the Black Knight would just blatantly laugh at another person's face if they thought they could make him feel bad by calling him lacking fashion sense. Meanwhile Paris might just be one of those rich people who wanted to enjoy the finer things life could offer—if that was the case, that only added one extra reason as to why Ares could not be bothered with him.

So where the _hell_ was Ares? Even thinking about these all made her sad. She had been used to his attentive—if not protective presence wherever they were. She had been so used to his silent reassuring presence, either when he watched her from his typical table or his silent gesture of lifting his glass when she was about to perform as if reassuring her that whatever happened, everything would be alright and she could deliver a great performance as usual. And she had been used to his way of lifting her spirit when she felt like failing to catch up with the image of her mother, who was said to be a dancing legend herself. When he offered rides, when he silently draped his cape over her when she was cold, when he informed her that his traveling water vessel contained ginger ale, or when he held his hand for her and patiently waited for her to take it knowing she was tired or too sore from dancing.

... And when he would stop at the first  _no_ she said no matter what happened.

Without him, somehow something felt amiss. Their bonding time, the secure feeling which easily made her feel relaxed whenever he was around—not to mention how easy it was for her to just tease Ares and do whatever she pleased, to the concerned look of Darnaians.

“I suppose… yes, it is alright,” Lene answered, stealing a glance at the mercenary headquarter once again. Paris hinted about leaving soon, and with all the things he had been sending backstage the least she could do was showing some gratitude to him.

“My carriage is waiting. Please, my lady,” he gestured, and Lene followed absent-mindedly.

“I am just a dancer, milord,” she stated, trying to chuckle away her awkwardness once they were inside. The carriage was also as exquisite as Paris himself, with various vegetal motifs decorating its lattices and interior.

“So? Are you not a woman too? The least I can offer you is a ride home, right?” he casually replied. “I understand this is unlike what your guardian pet offered you, of course.”

“My friend… actually, I haven’t seen him these days…” she bit her lips.

“Dear, I don’t think it is something worth-mourning for. He lives at the battlefield, and I’m sure you belong somewhere else. Or is he that low to even dare suggesting you to see him in action?”

“Milord—Ares is not a brute,” she stated slowly, but her tone was firm like she was making a sword stance and planning to keep it that way. “And actually, no. He does not take pleasure in killing people, and he makes sure nothing of him smells _the job_ when he is around people.”

“He is still a ferocious fighter, dear,” Paris chewed his words.

“I won’t deny that at all, sure,” Lene agreed, “but I mean—there’s… more than just that.”

“Mercenaries only serve one master and that is money,” Paris scoffed. “I do think he only does you injustice by presenting this supposedly heroic side since life at the battlefield is not easy.”

“Perhaps exactly why he does not want me to see,” Lene replied. “I mean—I don’t… think he considers that heroic at all. It’s only a job his contract binds him into,” she quickly added upon noticing the subtle change in Paris’ eyes as she stood up for Ares.

_The Ares who would rather send me away than accidentally making my dress dusty._

“Killing people is just a job for him, and you do not see it disturbing?”

“No—he does not just... mindlessly kill people. He would—he would let people go if they would just—“

_The Ares who found out he almost lost his wallet to a petty pickpocket and did not care._

“Not just killing?” Paris raised an eyebrow. “My! Goodness, so much he did to your mind, my poor dear! But I did catch that even that beast knows you and the battlefield do not match!”

_The Ares who saved an entire wealthy merchant family without being asked to or paid for._

“Please,” Lene gritted her teeth. “His name is Ares.”

_And he really could not care less about his supposed beastly image the way he let me drag him by the ears and yank his hair like that. The Ares who did house chores without a second thought. The Ares who ordered milk for a crying baby. The Ares who washed clothes and shopped food._

“Of course. Please, do not be offended on behalf of him. I only aspire to abandon the places I traveled to by leaving a good impression, of course. And are we close to where you live?”

“I think you would have done so marvelously,” she replied politely. “And yes. I’m sorry, but I don’t really feeling like inviting you in. The place is a bit… cramped, if you would understand…”

“Speaking of which. If you’d take this little gift from me,” he said, procuring a box from under his seat. “And perhaps I should pick you up again for the dinner later.”

“You have given me so much,” Lene stared at the box he put on her lap. “And… sorry—I’m dancing tonight, so I suppose we can talk after I’m done?”

“Such tough life for a delicate lady,” he merely chuckled. “Do you actually like it here? Perhaps I could…”

“Oh, milord. If you said that I might think you’d offer me a house as well,” Lene returned the laughter. “I simply think I have nothing to offer you compared to what you’ve given me so far.”

“Well,” Paris’ smile grew wider this time. “What if that is the case, my dear?”

“What—? No, you are saying…”

“Right. Exactly what you are thinking.”

“I… no, really? But… why?”

“Because I like you enough, is that weird?” Paris merely shrugged like he just asked if she liked a candy or something. “And I understand how this is too big for you to process, so I guess we’ll talk about this more at dinner. Do you fancy art deco, or perhaps old-style tile works?”

If not because of politeness-whatsoever, Lene would keep staring with her mouth open until her jaw felt hurt. Paris just… proposed— _WHAT?_ She silently pinched herself just like she did Ares, just so she knew she was not dreaming. A new house. Or rather, perhaps, him taking her in. And just that—out of the blue, very confidently so. And as what—a personal dancer or entertainer for House Acalve? That did not sound too bad since Paris seemed to appreciate art. Or… something else. _Something… else._

Lene could only nod even after the ride ended. She got into the house, locking the door and drew her curtains closed. She felt like she wanted to be alone at the moment. She _needed_ to be alone, alright—

 _There is nothing free under the sun,_ she remembered telling Ares one time. And the Black Knight simply nodded, adding that there had to be a price to pay for survival. Now a big offer came to her just like that. All she needed would be just an affirmative answer and she would be out of this desert.

Lene glanced at her bed. There were leftover flowers from the other days Paris had sent backstage. Not only that, he had sent various trinkets to her as well, like a glittering flower brooch she did not need to guess to be expensive. She set the box he gave her on her lap while beginning to seat herself slowly to process what Paris just asked.

 _There is nothing free under the sun,_ she repeated her own creed silently. And perhaps Paris was just too soft to ask her to be his mistress. But he seemed to be reasonable enough compared to most men if not rich folks she had come across so far. And then…

Lene opened the box Paris gave her, finding a beautiful soft ivory silk gown inside, with a pair of matching ribbons. Her fingers trembled upon feeling the gold threads and crystal beads sewn into the ribbons, as well as how soft and nice the fabric of the gown felt against her skin. Such luxuries, things she would not be able to afford even if she broke her ankles trying to earn the money.

Like a wake-up call she then glanced at the bed, or the counter where she put Paris’ other trinkets. She started contemplating everything she received from him—the gown which suited someone of his standing, gifts befitting someone of his position and wealth. His question whether she liked art deco or not. And…

Lene smiled sadly, reboxing the gown and ribbon she received.

_There really is no such a thing as a free lunch under the sun._

* * *

Ares set his cesti aside. The iron gloves made a sound when he dumped them on the ground, and he checked his pocket watch as he slammed his body against the grass. It was getting dark, and he imagined Lene would be getting ready for the dance tonight.

He sighed.

If he attended then they would interact; perhaps strengthening her attachment to him. Either that, or all hell broke loose when the lion inside him urged him to deck Paris. But whichever it was, Ares truly wished Lene would find a better place to be. And perhaps with someone with a fortune and connection, she could find her mother quicker than having to dance herself to oblivion in this place. Or at least wealth bought connection, and connection could be used to track footprints.

He cackled, feeling pathetic of himself. Why would he even pick up battle gloves? He already did that in the morning. And perhaps twice the day prior. And even thrice the day after he went riding with Paris. Why was he so interested in fistfighting all of a sudden? How confusing. Besides Sigurd or the rumored living son that wretched murderer supposed to sire before he perished, he hardly ever let his personal urge to fight get the best of him. But now he did. Let alone after telling how there was a good chance that Paris might be a boxer if not a swordsman like himself. The unwinding intent he harbored bloomed into a belligerent one as soon as he picked up the cesti, prompting his own concern.

Ares glanced around as his horse peacefully ate the grass near where his body landed. The riverbanks was as peaceful as always, let alone this further side few people cared to explore. He let out some off-tune ironic chuckles—he wanted to stay away from Lene thinking she deserved better than a sword or a friendship with a mercenary with body counts, yet there he was, at the place he dared enough to secretly call sanctuary because that was where his most peaceful moments tended to occur. How curious—it was where most of his interactions with Lene ensued, and how confusing it was even for him to run there when she was the very person he felt like he should not even see for the time being.

 _She seems to fancy him as well,_ he contemplated.

Ares got up. Perhaps he should attend the dance anyway. If his time with Lene was indeed limited the very least he could do would be sincerely, sincerely thanking her for everything she had done for him. For her friendship, for her unwavering faith in him, for calling him out when it should be. For putting up with him considering nobody else seemed to even bother with him, let alone this much.

_Why do I feel a pang of pain in my chest? This is so confusing. Just… why?_

Ares threw a punch.

_The pain stays._

He switched into darting a hook.

_Does that asshole lunge better than I do?_

An uppercut followed shortly after.

_She fancies his presence._

A cross pressed forward.

_Maybe I am the asshole. Who am I to prevent a girl to be happy?_

A jab impatiently followed suit.

_Should I see a healer? My chest feels heavy._

But he exhaled and inhaled just normally. Perhaps if he took his horse to ride a little bit more—

_Her handkerchief._

Ares took out the white embroidered handkerchief she lent the other day, feeling like a fool for not returning it as soon as he was able.

_Is that why I feel pained?_

He unfolded the handkerchief. No, there was no pin or whatever that got stuck in there. Besides, he washed it himself. He did not make mistakes when it came to his laundry. He even separated it from the rest of his pile, feeling so self-conscious all of a sudden that a lady’s clothing article would be too nice to mingle with whatever crap he got to call laundry.

He ruffled his hair impatiently.

_Perhaps I should see a healer—_

His horse neighed, successfully taking him out of his reverie before he destroyed himself there. As he went to where his horse was, he had to stop a bit for not believing what he just saw—

Flower bed.

Yes, flower bed reigned over the grounds near the tree he tied his horse to. Flower bed at the further, more concealed side of the riverbanks. And perhaps Lene would…

Ares smiled faintly. He would have this little secret he could share with her, and eventually she could get as many flowers as she wanted as long as those beautiful orange chrysanthemums kept growing. And it dawned on him suddenly—that would mean…

_Me, giving her flowers?_

Ares recalled flower sellers at the market he could easily find every time he went shopping. He hardly ever thought of it so far—if not fearing she would be offended by the gesture. And he never actually sent anyone flowers, just like how he never waved or clap for anyone.

Something fell on his head as he contemplated the flowers…

 _Grapes,_ he thought again. A grape just casually landed on top of his head.

Suddenly he chuckled. Six months before his first reflex would be unsheathing Mystletainn to make a diagonal upward slash. Now that she was not with him, somehow he found himself tempered enough that he would merely look up like a normal person would when something fell on their head instead of reacting like a battlefield demon that he was. Six months felt like forever that he was so used to everything—including her presence around him. He did not even notice when did looking up felt just normal again instead of being wary that a hidden enemy would lunge at him to cast death from above.

Ares rolled his sleeves again, putting his strength to a good use by shaking the grape tree. This time he was confused because somehow he felt like his emotions were about to explode each time he contracted some muscles to push the tree. He heard a strange sound when he was about to shake the tree for the third time.

* * *

 

“Spacing out!”

Lene blinked.

“See, I startled you! You were indeed spacing out,” a musician laughed, waving her mandolin to her. “Are you tired? The crowd is always like this whenever you perform.”

“Are you?” Lene had to smile herself. It was true, and if the crowd demanded an encore, she was not the only one who would have to deliver.

“Girl, I’m just here making music while you twirl and spin with everything you’ve got. Even if I might, you sure are,” the mandolin player grinned. “Go to the backstage now, you. If the crowd still sees you on stage, they will keep demanding more.”

“Actually, I’m fine with you and the flutist here. Hey, where is the violist?”

“Looking for some drinks for us, I suppose. Ah—crap, I forgot to ask what you would like! Usually you retreat backstage as soon as you conclude your dances, so…” the mandolin player bobbed her head apologetically.

“Oh, it’s alright. There has to be some refreshments back there,” Lene replied.

“It has to be. You are the prima donna. They should be giving you more,” the mandolin player replied earnestly. “Ah, money, what wouldn't I do for you... hey, are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“Actually…” she thought a little bit. “Ah—yes. Can you check if Ares is with the audience?”

“Ares?” the mandolin player frowned. “Ares who—oh—goodness, you mean _the_ Black Knight?”

“Yes? I don’t know any other Areses,” she responded. This happened often that it almost became a routine each time she mentioned his name, but today she was annoyed.

“I did not see him when I got here,” the mandolin player shook her head. “He’s got a striking distinctive appearance. People will tell if he is here.”

“So… not here for the sixth time, consecutively,” she sighed.

“What’s with you and the Black Knight?” the mandolin player grinned. “I mean. You did not just get to pinch his ear and drag him away when he was close to start a fight, you know. To think you could just do that and he followed… the rumors might be true.”

“What? No—for the hundredth time, no, I’m not dating Ares!”

“Indeed not, because you guys are married, right? Or so I heard—“

“H-haha, hahaha, I’m going to kill whoever started this bullcrap..."

“You know you don’t want to,” the mandolin player laughed, waving her hand at Lene. “Get some rest backstage, girl. You are panting, I’m not dragging your faint body there.”

“Now you sound like Ares,” Lene pouted.

“Such a thoughtful guy then. … Or does this mean you are pregnant?”

“I’ll murder you too after this ends, just so you wait,” Lene smiled menacingly. The mandolin player merely giggled and playfully shoved her out of the stage, so Lene found herself alone the moment she was out of everyone’s eyes for no longer being on the stage.

She sighed again. She did not feel like going backstage at the moment—Paris might be waiting for her, and she had yet formulated an effective way to communicate with him without having to retreat and withdraw—at least not before making sure he listened what she wanted to say.

Lene peeked from the curtains, which fenced the stage from the corridor heading to the backstage. Neither Paris nor Ares was there, and while Ares would not invite himself without any foreword from her, she trusted Paris would be decent enough not to pop out uninvited.

Leaping as if she wanted to run away after stealing something, Lene rushed to the backstage, yanking the door open and quickly sealed it shut from the inside. The performers’ room she usually shared with other dancers if not female musicians was just empty, spared her things and the female musicians’ who performed that night with her scattering around the counters.

Only then she noticed a wooden box being placed on the counter where her cloth bag was.

Lene sighed again, exasperated. If this was yet another gift from Paris…

Then she recognized it. The same wooden box she used to place her cookies… and the last time she baked something, she had it delivered to the mercenary headquarter.

 _Ares,_ her mind raced quickly while her hands began to open the box impatiently. Of course it did not take time for her to recognize her own white handkerchief there—the very one she had lent him. And she was so relieved because lately she thought Ares did not want to see her again and deliberately evaded her, and yet…

Relief turned into a surge of overwhelming emotion when she noticed Ares had put other things inside the box. “Grapes?” she stared in amazement. Wild grapes. Nice, fresh wild grapes he found somewhere apparently, because Ares hardly even bought vegetables… let alone fruits. He shopped in a way as if one conditioned himself in a military life—buying something durable that could be preserved in case of a travel. … And was that a chrysanthemum? How curious—only one single orange chrysanthemum. Did Ares pick flowers? Then why only one?

Lene wanted smother herself because she nearly tore the silence with utter laughter. Imagining Ares awkwardly picking some flowers… and finding wild grapes who-knows-how-and-why…

… Suddenly she wanted to cry. She had to meet Ares. She had to…

Lene bolted out of the backstage, wasting no time to gather all her belongings, including another box she had taken with her. She slung her cloth bag over her shoulders while her palms tightly clasped on the wooden box like it was a treasure chest. “Ares?” she called out as she raced across the corridor.

There was no answer.

“Ares, come on!” she stopped, frustrated. “Please… don’t… play around like this…”

The corridor ended and Ares was nowhere to be found… only that there was Paris waiting for her.

“Dear,” he nodded slightly. “Why are you rushing and still haven’t changed?”

“I…” she clutched the box even tighter, summoning her resolve. “I’m sorry, but…”

“Oh, it is alright, I can wait. After all why would I begrudge a lady when she takes more time to be pretty?” Paris casually cut in. “I’ll be out here when you are ready.”

“I’m—I’m so, deeply sorry—“ Lene said firmly, “but that is not… what I meant in the slightest.”

“What are you saying?”

They did not have time to continue the conversation when someone could be heard shouting. “Hey! Get the tables ready, come on! Someone’s injured here, let’s lay him down.”

“Injured?” Lene frowned and quickly rushed to the front before Paris could stop her.

“Perhaps it’s just drunken brawling,” Paris scoffed.

“It can be something else,” Lene replied without stopping. “And it’s still an injured person!”

People had crowded the dining area when she and Paris arrived. Lene could see the barkeep, with the help of that night’s performing musicians, started joining a couple of tables together to create a makeshift bedding. “I’ll get some water!” the mandolin player said.

“No. Hold on.”

Lene stopped. So did Paris and nearly everyone present at that time.

Ares walked into the bar. His footsteps were long but careful, and Lene would have wanted to rush to him if not for their current situation or his own predicament at the moment. He was carrying someone in his arms—a little boy—and Lene could not resist gasping when she recognized who it was.

“Milord, is that not…”

“So! You found my page? What did you do to him, you savage?!” Paris roared at Ares, who did not even look at him and simply laid the little boy down on the makeshift bedding.

“Miss, if you want to fetch some water, make sure it’s boiled first,” Ares gestured to the mandolin player. “Make it quick. We are racing against time here, he is bleeding.”

“I… uh… understood—Sir… um… Ares, is that correct? Lene told me your name, and…”

Instead of berating her for even being concerned by such trivial matter at a dire time, Ares merely nodded tenderly. “Yes. It is my name, just like she said.”

“Oh—alright, coming!”

“I’ll help you!” the violist rushed with her, and from the front there Lene could hear them demanding a cook, who was overseeing a burning stove, to get her whatever-it-is-that-is-cooking out of the stove because they needed boiled water.

“Ares, you are… bleeding?” dumbfounded, Lene looked at him.

“I won’t be surprised if I were you,” Paris gritted his teeth. “Do you have a good explanation for this, you brute?! Look at him, stepping so low that he even dared to show himself to you people with a bleeding child in his arms!”

“… Rather than that, do you, asshole?”

Everyone gasped. That ferocious death stare. The sharp tone. The leonine demeanor—

“What did you say?!”

Ares glared at him, but the boy whimpered so he turned his attention from Paris. “Are the rest of you only going to stare like a moron or will someone eventually fetch a healer?!”

“Ah—y-yes, find a cleric, come on!”

“Ares, he… what… happened?” Lene whispered, seeing the blood stain on Ares’ left shoulder.

“He was injured when I found him,” he answered. “I had to cradle him like this while mounted because that was only a makeshift bandage I fixed on him. If I laid him on top of my horse in a typical sitting position, I might risk the wound,” and just like that his leonine demeanor returned like a threatening tidal wave. “Are you going to answer me or just parading around like an impotent peacock?”

“Hold your tongue, you craven savage—“

“This boy tore his skin and was left with an open wound,” Ares replied slowly, but the way he spoke made each word felt suffocating as if he just hammered a nail one by one in a very painful manner. “I suspect he got trapped under the carriage and was dragged by a panicking horse for a few meters at the riverbanks. Probably grazed against a sharp rock in the process.”

“And I suppose nobody saw that instead of you! Very clever!”

“Water is ready!” the mandolin player shouted.

“A-are you sure about this, Black Knight?” the barkeep whimpered.

“From what I observed, the wound is similar to a sword cut. I can try,” Ares replied… in a comforting manner. “That is why I asked for a healer just in case. I have no idea how long he’s been there, the last thing you would want to happen is an infection and he’s just a little boy—“ his sharp glare returned and was darted at Paris, “—who is not supposed to tend to a horse he can barely climb on by himself.”

People began to whisper.

“I don’t know swordsmen also tell stories these days,” Paris muttered.

“I don’t know a grown man can’t put on his own coat that a boy barely taller than his waist had to do it for him,” Ares smirked… ominously. “Now shut up or I sew your _nose_ tight.”

The boy squealed in pain.

“Kid, I’ll make you sleep so you don’t feel anything as I fix you. But don’t worry, we’ll get you patched and you will stop bleeding when you wake up,” Ares murmured to the boy.

“It’s… aching, Mister—“

“I know. Trust me I know,” Ares responded sadly. Of course he knew. Sword cuts, bruises, scratches—he knew. Perhaps too early. “Lend me your strength. I can’t do this alone.”

“My… strength?”

“Yes. You are so strong, and the great Hezul would agree with me. Now close your eyes,” he whispered gently as Mystletainn’s handle made a quick and precise knock against the boy’s solar plexus. Ares rolled his sleeves, took off his gloves and yanked his cape, taking his first-aid kit pouch he kept secure in his inner pocket. When the violist and the mandolin player dragged a cauldron containing boiled water, he soaked everything into the cauldron while he cleaned the wound with a mixture of rose honey he usually carried with him as disinfectant.

“Ares—“ Lene felt awkward for a second. Under scrutiny Ares held everything intact and still saved the boy. Well, she knew he’d probably punch Paris after this, but—

“I think you should look somewhere else,” he responded. “I mean…”

_The tender, tender kind Ares I know and everyone else dismissed—_

“No,” she shook her head, resolved. “Let me help you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Lene nodded. “You are not the only stubborn person here, you know?”

“I nearly forget about that,” Ares chuckled. “Then if you can guard the candle for me…”

“Sure thing!”

Lene noted how Ares did not hesitate soaking his own hands into the cauldron. The Black Knight only grimaced a bit on the beginning, but kept going on as he fetched all the equipment he needed out of the cauldron. Hot water, yet he did not hesitate to brave it just so he could save a kid he did not even know, who belonged in service of a man who despised him. It did not escape her either how used Ares was to pain, which only made her want to wrap him in a blanket as she demanded him to spill out his life stories in the frankest, most brutally honest unabridged way possible so she could share the burden.

Her smile accompanied the meticulous effort he put to save the boy, and for a moment Ares nearly blurted out perhaps he would not need so much light since she made his surroundings _radiant._ But Lene was still there, staying by his side after one thread-pulling after another, or her wincing after another. There were a few instances where she would clutch on him out of reflex because of the gore-ish view before her, yet she still held on...

Ten minutes passed before Ares finally wiped his forehead, again withstanding the hot water to clean his hands as well as sterilizing his equipment. Lene gingerly followed him to the kitchen when he steered his paces there to return the cauldron to the cook. “Will that… be all?” she whispered again.

“Yes. Just get the healer tend to him when they arrive,” Ares replied simply.

“You saved him.”

“I was just stitching a wound there.”

“Ares.”

“ … I suppose that is the the only thing I can do besides fighting...”

“Ares—“

“Don’t come closer,” he muttered softly.  “My shirt is bloody. I don’t want to stain you.”

“But…”

“Rather than that, are you alright?” he wiped his wet hands on his pants.

“I manage,” Lene responded.

“I never think you are weak,” he said gently, “but don’t force yourself if you can’t bear it.”

“Why are you…”

“And before I forget, please tell the barkeep to keep that wounded arm in a higher position. Put whatever you can find to support it so that his elbow goes above his heart.”

“Ah—yes, he already did so when you left,” Lene responded. “You are knowledgeable.”

“I am a mercenary,” he replied in a matter-of-factly manner. “This is not new to me. There is nothing to be proud of for saving a kid while taking lives of other men.”

“No…”

“I’m not sure if I can change right away. Go home without me.”

“No—“

“… And perhaps, Paris would—“

“No! No, I said!!”

“… Lene?”

“No,” she whispered. “I said no.”

“… No?”

“No. How—how dare you,” she held up the box he returned to her. “How dare you. Really, who do you think you are… how—dare—you,” her voice grew weaker and weaker.

Ares stayed where he stood. She had made a gesture to strike him with the box, and even if she did, he would just let her. But her voice went softer and fainter each time she spoke of a word, and when the box finally got close to his temple, there was hardly any intent of striking—let alone power in there if not her chest heaving like she was in deep, deep sorrow.

“You returned—my handkerchief,” she whispered again.

“I’m sorry it took days for me to,” he replied, his voice equally gentle. "I have it with me all the time but I have been... preoccupied..."

“Where have you been?” she asked again. “No—where were you, really?”

“I was thinking that you might be better off w—“ Ares was silent because her index finger reigned on his lips.

“Asshole.”

“Lene.”

“Ares. Looks like we are going to play calling each other’ name indeed,” she chuckled awkwardly as her tears began to fall. “I’m confused myself—but—“

“Forgive me,” he whispered again.

“If you want to be a guard dog then you can’t just disappear like that,” she murmured. “For days I thought you were angry with me—“

“Angry? With you, who do this often?” Ares merely chuckled, yanking his own mullet to mimic Lene’s trademark attack. “I was thinking you might… benefit from not having me around. Like…”

He almost said _potential suitor who could give you the comfortable life you deserve_ when Paris barged in. “I believe you owe me a word, Black Knight?”

“Stay here,” Ares gestured reassuringly to Lene. “I won’t fight if he doesn’t start anything.”

“Stop this nonsense. Just what did you do to my page?” Paris glared at him again. “I’ve been patient with you these days, you know that?! I thought you’d finally be aware that you should just leave her be and go on with your heroic bloody feast if you care about her at all.”

“I carried him here. Like I said, he got trapped under the carriage and was dragged by the horse,” Ares responded firmly. “My turn. What the _fuck_ did you task him to do?”

“Colorful language. Trapped beast.”

“My answers are straight to the point while you keep backpedaling again and again. What’s the matter, new to town that you can’t find your way?”

“How do I know you are not lying?!”

“The same way you know I am not lying—that you know I am not.”

“What…”

“Why was the boy alone with two adult horses?”

“That’s—“

“Why do you only have an old man and a page to handle your carriage? You talked about strong, proud sworn-in army a lot. You know a personal lifeguard for a private carriage usually consists of three able-bodied men with two riders and one rear guard with at least five extra horsemen.”

“Bluffing aren’t you?”

“What do you think I’m earning my living with, writing perverted fiery poems?”

“T-then my horses!”

“I returned them to Bramsel’s since that’s where you are staying until today, I believe?” he shrugged. “The carriage is still at the riverbanks, but I asked my comrade to fetch it with his own horse and follow me to Bramsel’s.”

“Wow, really! And I suppose you were herding three horses all at once?”

“Yeah?” Ares smirked ferociously this time. “Ask Bramsel if you wish, but with three horses at the disposal of my right hand since the boy lay in the crook of my left arm, I might need some stretching,” his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“How—“

“Shouldn't you have guessed? It was you wanted me as your riding companion, sounds like I rode well. The honor is mine to return your confidence in me!”

 _Ares—_ Lene gasped.

“Now you act cool.”

“Act cool?” Ares chuckled in a sinister manner this time. “I don’t need to act.”

“Son of a bitch—“

Ares dodged the cross cut Paris lunged at him, his eyes barking a deadly threat. “Do not use that word when speaking of my late mother,” he growled. “You have been warned.”

“Very well! Then perhaps I can spank you as well since you never know your place now that she is no longer around to discipline you.”

“Spanking? You like it rough, don't you?” Ares feigned squealing, “I’ve generously invited you. Better late than never, I guess,” he balled his fists and made a stance. “If I deck you, are you going to cry to Bramsel? Or should I send you to him as a corpse, this way he won’t hear you!”

Lene shook her head. Ares’ bloodlust became clearer and clearer, and it did not escape her either that Paris seemed to care more about his reputation that he, the supposedly chivalrous, mindful benefactor, honorable titled head, had been subjected an underage employee to ridiculous workload with little regards to safety regulation. Paris might have hated Ares from the first sight, and Ares looked like he had been itching to kick Paris’ ass since their very _warm_ meeting. But actions spoke louder.

And yet…

“Stop this!” she stood between them. “Lord Paris—I don’t… understand. Your page boy was badly injured, would not you check on him?! And Ares—“

“Alright, alright,” Ares shifted, and if only the situation was not this tense Lene would have pinched his ear again because of the way he spoke.

“If he was careless, sure I’d reprimand him!” Paris spoke.

“What? That is not what I meant! Gods—he is just a little boy. That kind of wound could have killed him!” Lene’s eyes bulged. “What if you lost him?!”

“Then I’d need to announce an open vacancy?” he shrugged. “Dear—he knows what he is into. My point is I paid my servants. I am a businessman, of course I know finance.”

“… So… people’s lives are just… a matter of money to you, correct?”

“Lene—“ both men spoke before glaring at each other.

“Then Lord Paris, I am glad that you made yourself clear with the offer. I refuse,” Lene said, in a warm tone and a smile. “I left the box you sent me at the backstage. Please come in and take it back with you, as well as other things you have given me.”

“What? But—that… can’t be!”

“It _can_ be,” her voice was sharp. “Everything has to be tailored to your taste. You never wanted me in the beginning—you need someone who can uphold your image to maintain a prestige befitting someone of your position or your noble house. You hardly even asked what I wanted or I liked.  Gods, you hardly even let me finish a sentence. You need a doppelganger.”

“And you are choosing this savage—why?!”

Neither Ares nor Paris could say anything when Lene bluntly swung her hand at him. There was a clear sound of a strike, and Paris’ face lost its color when Lene slapped him. “I told you,” she chided, “his name is Ares, and he just saved the page boy you almost left to die.”

“Don’t do this to me—“

“Excuse me, but you probably sit there in your royal carriage thinking your sweetness and charming speeches can win anyone at an instant! Perhaps you prey on the sad unfortunate girls because yeah, yeah, so classic, if not someone titled and worthy like you, who would save them from the slum, is that right? But my apologies, milord, I am not your toy. I am a person with personality, not a canvas you can use just because she is supposed to be poor and miserable!”

“But Lene—“

“I paid for everything I have. With the money I earned, without the help of men I shunned,” Lene was so angry that her voice trembled. “So I cordially ask you to not insult me like that. I do not consider myself inferior just because I dance, and you do not need to peel me off my roots under the guise of saving me. Milord, I ask of you to… see women as a human too.”

“But…”

“I’m sorry,” Lene shook her head again. “I’m sorry, but this conversation is over. And I pay for my own rent, daddy’s little moneybag—“ she then stuck her tongue at him, “I forgot to add! I _am_ the one with a temper, not him,” and with it she gestured to Ares, chuckling this time. “Not your manic pixie dream girl anymore, I suppose?”

“Is there someone called Ares here?” a voice called from the outside.

“… It’s me,” Ares went out, with Lene following him after smiling triumphantly to Paris.

“I am the cleric and informed that you are the one who stitched the boy’s wound?”

“… Or if you heard of the Black Knight. But yes,” he nodded. “Is he alright?”

“Speedy recovery, just in time before he suffers blood loss,” the cleric smiled. “And I liked the rose honey you used to clean the wound. That saved us from worrying infection.”

“No need for amputation I hope?”

“My, Sir Ares, you are _very_ direct,” the cleric chuckled. “No need for that, yes. I’ve given some medicine he can take in case he won’t be able to see a healer. I’m told this is the servant of a guest who stays with Count Bramsel at the moment.”

“I thank you,” Ares bowed.

“No. I thank _you_ ,” the cleric replied. “You made my job easier.”

Ares followed the cleric. The boy started regaining consciousness, and he glanced around, feeling amazed for being attended by so many people. “Hello, kid,” he waved. “Feeling better?”

“Much better. I’m sorry, Mister.”

“What are you talking about? Just take your medicine and rest.”

“You've got a sword. Are you a warrior?”

“Just a… horse rider,” Ares smirked at Paris. “And don’t be like me. Inspire to be more, like Hezul.”

“Haha, why is it always Hezul, Ares? You sound like a fan!” Lene giggled.

“Well—Hezul is tough—isn’t that… obvious?” Ares cleared his throat.

“You are tough too.”

“No, I am simply Ares—I yield,” he quickly muttered when Lene put her hands on her hips again.

“Is this what you asked me to get from the backstage?” the mandolin player put a box and a bigger pouch on the table.

“Yes. Thank you!”

“Lene, are you—are you rejecting me?!”

“I’m sorry… and yes, duh,” Lene rolled her eyes and Ares nearly choked on the beer he was chugging to unwind the tension for treating the boy. “I mean—after everything that happened today, milord, I don’t think—that could happen. My utmost apologies. I am sure someday you will find someone else worthy of all your kind gestures. And you need to take the boy back so he can recuperate, yes?” she smiled at him. “Now if you excuse me!”

“But where are you going?”

“Changing. I’m going home!” Lene smiled again. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Your gesture was still kind and I appreciate it.”

“Hold on.”

But Lene already lingered to the corridor which would take her to the backstage, where she left the rest of her things.

“I said hold on.”

Lene turned around. Paris was there, looking more than _very vexed_ at the moment. “Um…” her radar kicked in and she took a step back out of reflex. And then it dawned on her. How he posed by presenting himself to be a benevolent man, which successfully deceived her creeper radar. Or perhaps it was not that she was deceived—she was merely used to the aggressive ones, and gods be damned if a girl should not think that a man who was nice to her was actually nice instead of having ulterior motives.

“I’ve never been turned down before,” he hissed. “Not even by titled ladies.”

“I’m sorry, milord. If only I could help you about this.”

“No. You—you should be _begging_ for an apology. Nobody turned me down. Nobody!”

“Eh—“

“Or do you really think you are _that_ great? You don’t think you are worth more than a thousand gold coins, do you?”

“… Excuse me?”

“As in, do you really think you are so beautiful that you can do this to me? Or—ah, that must be it, right? You want to bargain more knowing I value you this much?”

“You have misunderstood me, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe it is you who have no idea what you just rejected, you know?!” Paris took a hold on her. “Come with me to our manor in Silesse! I’m sure you will take back those words.”

“No, unhand me! What do you think you are doing?!”

“… Oi, asshole.”

“Who the hell dared to call me like that—whoa!”

A wooden glass was thrown their way from the other halfway-end of the corridor, which successfully landed at Paris’ face in precise. She could hear a sound of something breaking, and judging from the reaction, it was clear that the victim was Paris’ nose bridge.

Ares folded his arms as he leaned against the wall. His expression was not at all tame, and Lene ran to the direction where he stood to catch up with him. “She said no.”

“You broke my nose—“

“Ah, but the glass did it?”

“Stop being so suave!”

“So you are saying you are crass?”

“Are you mirroring me?!”

“Mirroring? Milord, you amused me. I have no idea what enlightening subject you are referring to. Please, I’m merely a simple believer of chivalry who will not let a lady’s distress go unanswered.”

“I’ll let you know not to make an enemy out of me, Sir Ares!”

“And likewise, Lord Paris,” Ares calmly picked up the beer glass he threw at him to save Lene. “I advise you to leave in peace.”

“H—huh?”

“Have some honor when she said no,” Ares cornered him. “Fair warning, if I could break your nose at a distance, then imagine my creativity when I get nearby.”

With Paris bolted out of the bar, the situation went under control—save the annoyed barkeep because the asshole did not even care to take the page with him. Lene shared a glance with Ares, feeling like if Paris no longer wanted the boy, perhaps he could stay and work at the bar. “I think he took those unqualified servants for his long trip just so he could use the money he was supposed to allocate to pay able-bodied servants to be flamboyant,” the barkeep huffed. “Rich assholes stay asshole—what, not you too, dammit.”

“No. The glass is safe, because I’m just an asshole, not a _rich_ asshole,” Ares grinned.

With that concluded, all that was left would be Lene’s turn to interrogate Ares. “I was wondering,” she said, giggling, “I thought it took a lot to get on your nerves. But apparently you are also interested in out-alpha-ing the alpha?”

“I guess training with cesti provoked the primal urge to fight instead of calming it,” Ares merely grinned. “And I fear your ear-pinching techniques much more than I fear another man’s fists.”

“Oh, you,” Lene rolled her eyes again. “Hold on—so, my cookies?”

“Aren’t they delicious?”

 _Delicious—_ “… Oh... gods.”

“Hmmm?”

“Oh, my! I thought you were mad at me because they made you constipated.”

“Haha, you really thought so?”

“Yes? Wait—Ares, you are laughing!”

“I am.”

“Why?”

_In another world where she thought her food doomed me rather than finding out I was close to seriously abandoning her thinking she would be happier this way—_

“My stomach is even more stubborn than me, is that not obvious?”

“That’s… t-that’s the case, huh… and the grapes?”

“Found them randomly.”

“The chrysanthemum?”

“It fell on the ground, so I picked it up to show you.”

“… You showed me a fallen flower?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “I found this rather secluded flower bed near the grape tree not far from where I found that page boy,” he started. “You told me you still liked flowers as they were, so I was thinking—maybe you’d rather see them blossoming than them as a bouquet.”

“Oooh, that is actually spot-on! Yes!! Bouquets are pretty, but it kind of feels selfish to rob flowers from their habitat just so they can decorate me,” Lene beamed with joy, and Ares could not help but noting how much he had missed that beautiful happy face and had longed to see her smiling like that at him again.

“Perhaps if you would want to see it—“

“That is very sweet of you!!”

Ares stared wide-eyed when Lene just pulled him into a hug from behind. He gasped—especially since he was about a head taller than her. She let go, as if only realizing what she did and felt so embarrassed to even do that.

 “My shirt is bloody.”

“L-like I bloody care.”

“The ribbons Paris wanted to give you are actually pretty nice.”

“But I like yours better? The colors are light blue which somehow represent hope for me like a brand new day. And they are actually very soft, very suitable for all kinds of activities! Those golden ribbons may be nice, but they are heavy and confining.”

“My ribbons are cheap compared to those golden ribbons, though.”

“Like I bloody care. Since when are you fashionable?”

“You sure do not want to see Silesse?”

“And be a bird in a golden cage? I’m poor, and probably ugly too, but I’m free!”

“What kind of a bloody asswipe who thinks you are ugly?”

“Aww, Ares—do you really think so?”

"... Why are you aww-ing me?"

"Because that is so sweet of you!"

"I'm just stating a fact here."

"Oooh!"

“Is that a hug or a headlock again... I can't tell. Hey, I told you my shirt is bloody.”

“Like I bloody care.”

“Lene—stop poking my ribs.”

“As if I bloody would.”

“I’ll make you regret poking a lion cub.”

“As if you bloody could.”


	15. Affection

“Now that should do it,” Lene exhaled, satisfied. She gave a pat on the last, adult fist-sized solid rock she tied to a wooden pillar which framed the door.

“Hoho, such a neat job!” the barkeep appeared from the counter, strolling closer to where she stood. “Thanks to these rocks, the canopy should be steadier.”

“Yes, it should be now! We’ve been getting more rainfall lately, and the night breeze only gets colder!” Lene smiled, stretching her arms. She gave another pat, this time on the thick short curtain which went below the canopy, whose ends were now neatly secured with the rocks she tied to each wooden post. The barkeep had put the canopy and short curtain which covered the top area of the door to protect bar-goers from the raindrops and cold breeze.

“Heavy rainfall means fewer customers,” the barkeep contemplated for a bit, “and people are already busy during the day to prepare for winter.”

“Speaking of which,” Lene thought, “I probably need to do it too. Gods, it’s been a while since I gathered fire woods again. Probably it’s good that my schedule is rather lenient lately.”

“Buy some then,” the barkeep clasped his chin.

“Nope,” Lene shook her head, determined. “The money for that can be spent for winter provisions. I can gather the woods I need and buy the rest, not the other way around!”

“You are one tough cookie, Lene,” the barkeep smiled. “And your dances had invited more customers this autumn than my ciders could ever dream of. I tell you what, if you feel like it’s too cold to go outside to gather fire woods you need, we can share! My family as well as this bar have been stocking for the entire year, including with the help of the good money you helped putting in our savings!”

“Ha! So this is why it’s hard to find them in the forest anymore,” Lene grinned. “And I can’t help it. It’s already tough to live alone like I am now, and my problems will not magically solve themselves.”

The barkeep laughed at her joke. “See, then you have no choice but take my offer,” he added, more sympathetic this time.

Lene was about to return the playful lines when she saw the curtain outside swaying. “A customer,” she mouthed to the barkeep, who bolted to the counter and made a confidence-boosting swipe to present an image of a spotlessly clean bar, undisturbed by the recent weather. But both she and the barkeep stopped when the supposed person standing outside grunted a bit.

“Canopy…”

It did not take long for either Lene or the barkeep to recognize whose voice it was, especially since the master of the voice strolled inside. He had a rather sour brooding look on his face, with his hair being damp as if a water bowl just splashed over it. He arched his back to lower his standing position before getting inside, and the barkeep looked from the counter.

“Hey, hey, Black Knight! Come in! Want some drink?”

“Ah, it’s Ares! I was so sure it was your voice,” Lene welcomed him with a smile, but her expression grew concerned because of his predicament. “What happened?”

“I bumped my forehead into that canopy,” Ares glanced at her, making his way to the counter, “because the curtain covered my eyes. Then the raindrops above fell on me… and yes, cider, please.”

She wished she could spare a more sympathetic response, but her soft giggles just conveniently came out. “So being tall has its downside too?” Suddenly she pictured him casually approaching the door in his typical brooding manner… only to get annoyed because his eyes landed flat on the curtain while his head conveniently bumped into the canopy.

It did not take long for him to catch up with her teasing. “Perhaps,” he said, taking a seat at one of the chairs before the counter. “What do you think, from down there?”

“I should have known! Ugh, I’m so sorry for worrying you.”

“Oh, so you worried about me.”

“Perhaps,” she quickly countered, not wanting to miss a beat. “What do you think, from that straight face over there?”

“The straight face says thank you,” Ares took another sip of his cider, purposefully changing his voice to convey a solemn demeanor as if some monarch of a sovereign country just formally knighted him. Oh of course he would need that sip; otherwise he probably would have laughed seamlessly because of how fired up she was now. Ah, if only he discovered it took a nice height difference to actually gain leverage against her… literally, and figuratively as well.

“Regardless,” the barkeep joined in, cleaning the last glass before him, “you should dry that hair soon. With such weather and us being here in a desert area, it is easy to get cold. You wouldn’t want that.”

“Well, recently I’ve been riding nightly,” Ares merely shrugged, “and getting rained too. So I don’t care.”

“Oh, this again!” the sound from the kitchen startled them. The bar was still rather empty, with the cold weather, chilling breeze, and cloudy skies making people lazy to get out. Still, it was too early for a bar time but the nice part of getting into an empty-ish bar was the casual, amiable chit-chat everyone could have while catching up on the latest news. And Lene liked it because an easy day for the bar prompted a more casual atmosphere instead of the typical one where she got to be a dancer.

“What happened?” the barkeep rushed inside, followed by Ares and Lene. The three of them got into the kitchen, finding the cook slamming a mop on to the floor while a barmaid scooped something out of a boiling pot over the stove.

“Not good, Boss,” the cook shook her head. She was visibly annoyed, mopping the floor while the barmaid throwing the liquid-something she scooped into a wooden bucket where dirty mopping water was stored. “It’s the ceiling. Water is leaking down here. At night it will be cold, and if it is raining again, I fear eventually the ceiling will collapse if not these wooden pillars to get weathered eventually.”

“We can manage the cold, though,” the barmaid gestured reassuringly, “but the leak is straight heading on to the stove… now that can ruin the food, I’m afraid.”

The barkeep lingered to check on the stove where the soup was boiling, and then looked above. Water dripped from a peeking gap at the corner of a ceiling intersection, and since the stove was placed neatly against the brick wall which framed the kitchen, it was only convenient for whatever was being cooked to suffer the most from the leak. “Ah, goodness,” he sighed after taking repeated turns to glance at the wall and the stove. “No, no, we can’t risk our customers. Just throw the whole pot away and recook the soup. I want my money guilty-free, besides, I’m not sure if leak drops would make a fine additional ingredient to my food!”

“The taste did not change, though,” Ares simply took the wooden spoon the displeased cook was holding and dipped it into the pot.

“I’m not risking that,” the barkeep shook his head again, taking the pot off the stove and shouted at another waiter from his shoulders. “Hey, make some outdoor stove, real quick! The kitchen’s got leaks.”

“Aye, Boss,” a waiter responded swiftly, hurriedly fetching for some stored fire woods while another already proceeded to erect some stones for a makeshift outdoor stove.

“I’ll go check. Fetch me the wooden ladder and… I don’t know, probably some hammer, nails, and wooden planks? Something needs fixing,” the barkeep sighed again. “For once I thought I could just sit peacefully behind the counter before diners come in… how naïve I’ve become…”

“Hey, Uncle.”

“… and perhaps endure a few of those legendary death stares of yours, but at least my ass is seated…” the barkeep continued, glancing at Ares who just reached out to him this time. The way he lamented was just so comical that even Ares could not resist a faint smile upon hearing that.

“I guess I’ve scared you often,” he said sheepishly. He grinned uncomfortably, also in a comical manner, when he sensed Lene proudly shooting meteors with her eyes from behind his shoulders. The long overdue ‘I told you so’ he should be hearing even before his crankiness against Paris got the best of him.

When the two waiters had finished setting up the emergency stove at the backyard, the cook also finished rinsing the water stains while the barmaid cleared the area where the bar placed the stove. “I’ll throw this away,” the barkeep approached the cook, gesturing to the wooden bucket where the dirty mopping water was stored. “You better hurry recooking that soup. The sky looks dark and heavy, I’m afraid it will rain soon again.”

“Making a new batch of soup is easy,” the cook replied, dragging a bunch of stored vegetables from under the counter, “but exactly, Boss. What if it rains again? Your makeshift stove won’t light either.”

“Ah, goodness, I totally forget it,” the barkeep ruffled his own hair, even more annoyed this time.

“Well, I can keep cooking if someone else would pay attention to these leaks,” the cook suggested. “You’d just need to drag the stove a bit further and got a bucket down there for the drips.”

“Dragging it where? If I drag it further, it will be close to the supply drawers. Fire hazard,” the barkeep whined. “If I close this place for the day… well, it’s not like it will eventually solve all the problems. Tomorrow that annoying gap will still be there if not getting wider.”

“Let’s recook what’s spoiled then before the rain comes,” Lene interceded. Her calming tone and taking-control gesture successfully neutralized the situation a little bit, and everyone was back to food business when she brought up the most important matter for the moment.

The barkeep leaned the wooden ladder against his kitchen wall, with Ares holding it still for him. On the third staircase, however, he stopped. “Nothing seems to be broken there,” he glanced below at Ares.

“Then perhaps the damage is outside. At the roof,” Ares pondered.

“Harummph. I need to climb the fucking roof too then,” the barkeep shook his head again.

“I suppose. If you are just going to slam a hammer there, I’m afraid the entire ceiling may crumble, Uncle,” Ares tightened his grip at the ladder when the barkeep descended.

“Old building,” the barkeep replied bitterly, “like me.”

“Come on, Boss. You know damn well nobody else can run this place like you,” one of the waiters laughed from the backyard. “At least you did not wet your pants each time Mr. Scary here glared.”

“… Yet,” Ares smirked, “I’m joking, I’m joking. I haven’t even paid for the cider yet,” he quickly added when the barkeep looked concerned.

“H-haha. Hahaha,” the barkeep laughed nervously. “Then I guess I have no choice but climbing the roof too… both of you there better get the tables ready now,” he shouted at the waiters, arching his neck to glance behind his shoulders.

“Hey now, be careful,” Ares called from below, steadying the ladder even more.

“Y-you glare again,” the barkeep chuckled nervously again, and…

Everyone stopped whatever they were doing when the barkeep dramatically yelled. He almost reflexively threw the hammer and nails he was holding if Ares did not catch his waist. “Hey, Uncle?”

“Ahhh, my arm,” he grunted, “I think I sprained it.”

“Can you come down?”

“What for? D-don’t tell me… you do not only know how to stitch a wound, but also salvage sprained muscles?” the barkeep desperately hang on to the ladder.

“Perhaps?” Ares could not resist messing with the poor old man, smirking again this time. When the barkeep looked horrified, he quickly added again, “I have pushed back dislocated joints because I had to.”

Everyone made a collective horrified sound.

“See,” a waiter who was bringing out some napkins grimaced, “it is just only a matter of time, Boss.”

“I don’t always find a cleric at the job,” Ares innocently continued, blissfully oblivious by other people’s reaction around him. “Besides, if enduring a little pain means surviving a battle, then why not?”

“H-haha, hahaha, well thank the gods I did not dislocate my shoulder,” the barkeep chuckled awkwardly as he attempted to make a turn in order to descend the stair.

“The principal remains the same, though. If I twist my ankle, I’ll just make a reverse spin to snap that back into normal. Usually poison versus poison like that works for me… eh—” Ares spoke again, but only then that it dawned on him that everyone was horrified by everything he said, so he sheepishly withdrew as his face became reddened.

“Ohhh, my old bones and joints,” the barkeep grunted again. “Hey, Black Knight, be careful down there! Watch your head, I’m going to throw these down so I can grip the ladder better.”

“You better,” Lene did not waste a time to get a revenge on Ares, “otherwise it would be much more painful than bumping into a canopy for being too tall.”

“We are drawn to things we never know or experience, Miss,” Ares replied calmly.

“Then by all means, Uncle Barkeep, please drop the hammer on Ares’ head,” Lene smiled devilishly.

“Do so, barkeep. So you can fall because I can no longer hold the ladder for you,” Ares smirked.

“Sometimes I forget how stubborn you are,” Lene sighed.

“Sometimes I forget my experience is specifically mine,” Ares chuckled, “… in regards to the canopy.”

“I’m going to bludgeon you again these days,” Lene glared at him comically.

“If you can reach!”

“Well, lovebirds, I hate to rain on your parade, but seems I got stuck here,” the barkeep spoke.

“Then perish,” both Lene and Ares spared him some kind words at an instant.

“No, seriously, I got stuck,” the barkeep sighed. “And Black Knight—for the love of Naga, I really cannot tell if you mean it or not each time you make a deathly threat.”

“Really?” everyone now turned their attention at the barkeep, who still clutched on the staircase while awkwardly flailing his other arm, which held the hammer. “Oooh gods. I feel like I’m about to fall.”

“Can you descend?” Ares looked up from below as the ladder began to sway.

“I’m not sure,” the barkeep admitted. “I’m going to try. Why don’t you take the hammer from me?”

“Let’s see…” Ares clasped his chin as he shifted his dominant hand to keep the ladder in the position, “I think I have a better idea. Besides, I’ve scared you shitless lately, so why not?”

“Wh… what are you suggesting?” the poor barkeep warily eyed him now.

“Get the waiter to hold the ladder in my place,” Ares said.

“I will help you then!” Lene hastily approached him, but the Black Knight gently shook his head.

“Not this time. I need some extra muscles.”

“Ye called?” one of the waiters, who heard the word ‘waiter’ being spoken from the backyard, strolled inside while his coworker was still watching over the makeshift stove. “Anyway, the fire’s ready. That apology soup better be ready quickly as well… the sky is graying again out there.”

“Then perhaps your coworker can help the ladies with the cauldron?” Ares pointed out. Only then he realized Lene had been helping the cook preparing the soup.

“Aye, sure, Lord Black Knight,” the waiter grinned. “We are gentleman peasants here.”

“Traitor,” the barkeep remarked sourly.

“Anyone who could troll the boss is my lord and savior,” the waiter laughed again, taking the ladder from Ares while his coworker got inside and took the cauldron from the girls, ready to set it on the makeshift stove. “Alright, I’m set here. What ye wanna do now?”

“Ah, good, hold on tightly then because I’m going to save your damsel boss who gets trapped in the tower…” Ares chuckled lightly. With the ladder getting a new guard there, Ares ascended a few staircases, reaching for the barkeep who had been fixed in an awkward position and not knowing what to do next. “Which arm?” he then asked the barkeep.

“The left one, fortunately,” the barkeep answered. “How are you going to get me down?”

“Revolution,” the waiter who was holding the ladder from below joked again before grinning at Ares. “Comrade.”

“Pass. Need the lords to hire me,” Ares returned the grin with a similar mischievous smirk, “Comrade.” He slung the barkeep’s healthy arm over his shoulders as his own arm encircled the latter’s waist.

“H-hold on. You’re lifting me down?”

“Yeah? Just mind the hammer there, Uncle,” Ares shrugged, holding the barkeep’s waist tightly and…

“W-whoa!” the barkeep yelped when Ares hopped off the last two staircases he had parked himself on prior. “Holy shit, I thought I nearly lost half of my life force when you did that.”

“Oh, Boss, you squealed,” the waiter chuckled, relaxing his tensed biceps after both Ares and the barkeep got off the stairs.

“Now let’s seat you down and fix that arm.”

“You are enjoying this too much,” Lene shook her head again with an accusing tone. However her eyes lighted just equally mischievous if not even more.

“Really?” Ares merely cocked an eyebrow, playfully aggravating her. “Well, I’ll see about that later. Since the barkeep is not fond of direct action, perhaps someone should fetch him a healer.”

“I can do that,” the barmaid spoke after witnessing everything gleefully. “Since Lene is helping with the soup, technically I am free. Besides, I have borne witness to her cooking prowess for eating her soup like you, Sir Black Knight!”

“Awh, sucks,” Lene muttered faintly, but she looked happy being praised like that. The barmaid left after leaving a trail of pleasant laughter, and Ares took what the barkeep left. “… What are you doing?”

“Checking things up. Fixing them too, probably,” Ares simply answered, yanking his cape off his body and unclasped his shoulder armor while he was at it. “Now you can help me,” he chuckled a bit, handing those clothing articles to Lene who was still looking at him.

“Nooo. I can’t let you do that,” the barkeep protested before grimacing out of pain.

“I haven’t paid my cider. So later then, Uncle,” he waved dismissively before taking the ladder out to the backyard. From the kitchen, everyone could hear the ladder being leaned against the wall, and sounds of footsteps from the rooftop followed not long after.

“He acts fast,” the cook commented.

“He is like that indeed…” Lene merely nodded, setting what Ares left her on the counter, somewhere dry she could supervise. She clutched on the shoulder armor he left with her as well, a little tighter and longer. He entrusted her with Mystletainn, and then… the armor too, huh? Somehow she felt shy.

“I used to think he is just scary,” the cook confessed as both ladies began to hear something being moved on the rooftop. Everyone reflexively gasped when sound of barking thunder startled them.

“He still can be. After all, it is Ares,” Lene giggled a bit, but her laughter quickly turned into a soft humming sound as if she was so pleased with her own conclusion. “… But the scariest ones often make the kindest ones too at the same time. Life is funny.”

“You are beaming,” the cook pointed at her nose.

“I thought you were going to say I’m also kind too since I’m scary,” Lene protested, strolling outside. “Ares, it’s going to rain, come down quickly!”

“There is a displaced tile here, no wonder it is leaking,” Ares shouted from the rooftop. “The good part is, it means the interior is alright so there is no need for a hasty renovation for the time being. If I can mend the hole and then drag the tile back to its initial position, it will be sturdier this time. I’ll do what I can.”

“It’s going to rain, do you hear me?!” Lene replied from below.

“I do. Which is why you need to get inside, no?” Ares merely shrugged, setting the board the barkeep had previously brought with him.

Lene strolled back inside. Sounds of a hammer drilling nails into the board could be heard from the kitchen, and she huffed. “I almost forget he is just so stubborn at times.”

“He takes care of you,” the cook’s eye glinted. “Aren’t you so sweet, rushing outside to warn him like that? And then it was him who sent you back in.”

“The stubborn ones seem to have the nicest hair,” Lene pouted sourly, tasting the soup when the cauldron was brought back inside.

“You are beaming again,” the cook sighed, “you both are actually alike.”

“No, I am the meaner one of us two.”

“A couple of days ago he broke off a fight and said he was the meaner one,” the cook commented again.

Lene did not respond, anxiously strolling to the threshold to watch how dark and heavy the sky had become. As a sudden roaring sound of a thunder startled everyone again, Lene braved herself to rush outside. “Ares, it really is about to rain this time!”

“I’m almost done here,” he shouted back from the rooftop, “I’ll just need to drag the tile, and…”

“Eeek!” Lene squealed reflexively when another thunder tore the sky. “Ares!”

“Ah, Lene, don’t!” the concerned cook pulled the dancer back inside. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, both ladies could only stare when heavy rainfall started pouring, serving as a formidable curtain which barricaded the kitchen from the world outside.

“Gods,” Lene murmured, in between of raindrops and roaring thunders.

“The leak begins to stop,” the cook pointed to the wall. Right—the water drops began to subside, and Lene understood everything would be dry and nice again in no time.

“Black Knight, the lord and our savior,” the clown waiter remarked as if he just celebrated a war hero returning from a battlefield. “Oi, we better reset the stove to where it was, mate.”

“Yeah,” his coworker quickly concurred. “Ey, Miss! What does the Black Knight like to drink again? I can’t imagine he will turn down something nice and warm after getting tanked by heavy rain like that!”

“Ah—ah, yes, of course…” Lene’s words trailed as she anxiously glanced outside again. “Umm… let’s see, anything you can think of to relieve fatigue and warm a cold shivering body? Ginger ale sounds great and makes a pretty healthy choice, what do you think? Let’s just get that first and ask Ares later.”

“I can’t see why it’s a no. Regardless, if he wants wine we are ready too,” the waiters rushed to the counter and began making the ginger ale she asked for.

“On me! Just get the best weather-combating drink you can think of,” Lene quickly added.

“Nonsense. I may be a cowardice ass at times, but I’m not going to charge him after what he did today,” the barkeep fixed his seating position, wincing in the process. “And it’s only a couple of drinks. He just prevented me from milking my savings for a supposed urgent kitchen renovation.”

“I have arrived with a cleric!” the barmaid from prior rushed inside, her carriage driver nearly tumbled on his boots to catch up with her and the cleric while holding a big umbrella for them. “Good gracious, everything is soaking wet and I feel like a weathered cactus! How is it, Boss?”

“Confined,” the barkeep merely grimaced. “Now I know how you felt,” this time he turned at Lene.

“Where is the handsome devil?” the barmaid asked, glancing around.

“Up there,” Lene answered, exasperated. “… Hold on. Handsome devil?”

“Why, Sir Black Knight of course! Oh goodness!! He died?!”

“No? No, dear gods, he’s just there fixing the roof!” Lene was close to yell at the barmaid. “And he was too stubborn to stop. So Ares—never retreats, knows no fatigue, charges forward like a raging lion!”

“Aww! Sounds like a thoughtful handsome devil, and a very powerful too while he is at it,” the barmaid beamed, “what?” she raised an eyebrow, sensing Lene’s sour-ish gaze at her.

Lene shook her head again, taking the umbrella from the carriage driver who was unwinding inside with a glass of mulled wine. “I’m going to bludgeon his beautiful head and drag his ass back here with us.”

“You can do that?” the barmaid raised an eyebrow.

“Gone she is,” the cook chuckled. “Your timing is impeccable, you flirt demon.”

“I don’t understand,” the barmaid said, “what for, a shirtless, dripping-wet Sir Black Knight?”

“Be mindful a bit, won’t you,” the barkeep teasingly patted her head. “Such a lion indeed…” he muttered, glancing at his waist where Ares held him to scoop him down pretty easily. He glanced to the ceiling, noticing the leak had stopped and the old water trail was drying. Sounds of merciless thunder could be heard roaming from the outside, and heavy rainfalls came down with the rumbling sound akin to a band of marching cavalrymen. Even from the comfort of a warm place the rain still sounded harsh, and his mind flew back to the warrior who decided to spit in Nature’s face just to repair his kitchen.

Months prior nobody would even touch him. And until now the Black Knight seemed to understand that his name alone instilled fear in the hearts of others, so he would prefer to be in the shadows and not startling people carelessly. During those times he would wait either when people had dispersed or when he was sure he would not be inviting people’s attention to linger closer. But as much as Darnaians were being surprised by the unlikely friendship between their favorite dancer and the notorious warrior, they were pleasantly surprised to learn that the Black Knight was not that untouchable. There was some utter awkwardness, of course, even until today—yet they began to notice that the warrior actually was not so unwilling when it came to ensuring the well-being of others around him.

Well, perhaps her smiling face played a part, but of course nobody would be truly interested to bet on all their chances to truly inquire the warrior about that, more so than they were hesitant to prey into the dancer’s private business just to get an answer. One thing the barkeep could sense lately was that he seemed to heed her, and gods-knew what she did to achieve that considering she was not exactly a fan of many of the men she had come into contact with so far.

Meanwhile Lene rushed outside as the barkeep contemplated on her. The umbrella started to feel cold in her grasp, and she had to hug herself because the rumbling rainfall and the cold breeze felt like a potent power which could throw her to the end of the world. Protecting her face from the splashing water, she glanced warily to the rooftop, scanning his whereabouts.

“Ares!” she shouted from below, nearly squealed again because a thunder startled her. But not for long because in no time she had sharply stared at her surroundings with the same fiery defiant look she would have when her mind was fixed on doing something. “I’m not even calling you. So shut up,” she said, as if speaking to a person instead of nature. She made some more eager steps, relieved to find the ladder Ares had erected in the midst of blurry view because of the heavy rainfall.

“Ares?” she searched around, and shouted his name again, this time to the above when she could not find him.

“I am coming down!”

Lene let out a soft startled gasp when Ares answered—or rather, shouted from the rooftop. He was drenched from head to toe, and yet still made a small nod at her to convey he did hear her. She rushed to get him with the umbrella, eagerly waiting at the foot of the ladder.

“Gah, I’m all wet,” Ares muttered as he slowly descended from the rooftop. “Hey, Lene—“

“Shut up already and come here,” Lene chided, standing on her tip-toes to hold the umbrella over his head. “The leak is stopping and the water begins drying…”

“Then that should take care of it,” Ares stated matter-of-factly again, picking up the ladder and twisted it in his grip to carry it horizontally by holding it with the crook of his arm. “Ah, be careful, it’s wet.”

“Nonsense. You look like you just got plunged into the ocean,” Lene pulled him closer to speak in his ear, trying to rival the sounds of raging nature. “Why are you so stubborn…”

“But the leak stopped right when the rain came down.”

“Stubborn,” Lene yanked his mullet as usual. “Stop being a jerk and let’s get back inside. And no, I’m going to cover you like this considering your hands are full and you are soaked like a soup.”

“If you hold the umbrella like that, you will get wet yourself,” Ares shook his head. “So let me—“

“No need, I’m already wet!” she yelled at him, gasping louder this time upon realizing the consequence such simple sentence caused. “I—mean…”

“I’m not doing that in this predicament, you know?”

“Ares!”

“… Letting you wetter than how you already got splashed so far? Why are you getting so riled up?“

“H-haha, hahaha—so that’s… the case, huh,” Lene chuckled awkwardly. “W-well…”

“I guess it can’t be helped with this height difference,” in a truly, truly rare manner, secluded from everyone else’s eyes to see, Ares smirked, sticking his tongue at her. “So I’ll hold that for us.”

“U-um. Then, the hammer. I can—“ Lene was so impressed by the sudden—and rare too, that was—reaction he displayed that it would be too late to say no, since he already took the umbrella from her.

“Now this is better,” he commented. “Be careful with the hammer. It’s slippery.”

“I have some ginger ale ready for you,” she said softly, lifting her dress a little bit to prevent water splashing over it with each of her steps. “… And everyone will make whatever warm drink you want. It will be free. Please, please let us all thank you.”

“… Guess I can’t refuse, huh?”

“Of course,” she answered, twirling the hammer in her hand, “and I have this now if you do.”

“My mistake disarming myself,” Ares lightly chuckled.  They strolled together to brave the rain, and from the corner of her eyes Lene could see how drenched Ares actually was. His black shirt was practically a soaking leaf at this point, too wet that it was pressed against his body with water dripping from all the ends. His hair had become a collective bunch of limping strands with his mullet framing his face, yet his eyes were still vigilant to scan his surroundings and find the quickest way to return to the kitchen.

“Are you cold?” she tilted her head to catch his eyes. Suddenly she imagined if what he called as nightly riding would be like this. If the battles he fought in ever be similar to today—only colder, deadlier, and he had to be more vigilant than ever because he had to know if the rumbling sound which awaited him at the horizon was thunder or a bunch of armed folks readying themselves to kill him.

“Not really,” he replied simply. “… Are you?”

And suddenly she found herself unable to answer that simple question. Perhaps—considering all the heavy rainfall pouring around them and the cold breeze which slapped their bodies through like a piercing magical spell. However it was not that unbearable, especially knowing that he was actually safe under the umbrella with her like this. At the same time she pondered an umbrella on a rainy night itself was perhaps a luxury on its own for the Black Knight ….

So she simply shook her head in silence, sparing a gentle smile to reassure him. After all it was he who challenged thunders at their faces by being on the rooftop to fix the tile. It was he who kept working even though the sky did not waste a time emptying its aqueduct on him. And she was definitely not the one walking around in soaking drenched clothes.

She glanced up, feeling Ares pulling her closer to be well-covered by the umbrella. When she was about to say something about him needing it much more than her, he let go, acting like nothing happened if not sliding further. Lene recalled how Ares tended to evade her whenever he felt he was improper—dirty clothes, blood-stained shirt, worn and dusty cape… as if he was afraid to stain her. Well, she would not call herself pure or something similar, considering her familiarity with the darker side of life if not survival tips. And with it, people like him. People who worked when others were most likely to be asleep, people who challenged Death to buy a ticket to see tomorrow.

So she pulled him back in. He did not say anything, but his eyes showed a soft startled expression, if not an unsaid question. _Why?—_ she pictured him asking that, and she shook her head again, smiling at him this time. “It’s raining, Ares. This is big enough for two.”

“… Ah, my head,” he softly muttered when his forehead was close to bump with the umbrella again.

“Then stay inside, Giraffe,” she teased.

He simply nodded and did as he was asked. The way she spoke gave a soft impression on him, yet he knew just by looking at her she would not take a no from him as an answer. Neither he nor Lene said anything as they strolled back to the kitchen, to the amazed look of everyone else because of how he had become.

“I’m sorry about that,” he motioned to a pool of water his boots and drenched clothes left by the time he stepped inside. Everyone else seemed to be reluctant enough to start a conversation with him. He hardly cared much. He was aware of his intimidating presence, if not how awkward he easily made others feel when he was around. “Is the Boss okay now?”

“Yeah,” the barkeep answered from the counter. “The miss got you ginger ale. Over there, Black Knight.”

“You better dry yourself, Ares,” Lene said, setting the umbrella to dry as well. “Sure it’s alright if we let him use a nice towel or whatever you can find here, Uncle Barkeep?”

“I was right all along,” the barmaid winked at Lene, “shirtless Black Knight deserves to be painted.”

Lene rolled her eyes at her, but judging from everything else it did not look like she was begrudging her for that. Instead, she nearly snorted imagining Ares’ annoyed look having to stay still while shirtless while another person sketched a painting of him. “You need the ginger ale,” she said to the barmaid.

“You sound very satisfied to be thirsty,” the barmaid gestured casually, giving the dancer a red face.

Regardless of the thirst discourse, Ares gratefully took the towel a waiter gave him, drying his hair first before he eventually had to take his shirt off to dry above the fire where the soup cauldron previously was. Cold sensation pierced through him as soon as he removed his shirt because his bare chest was exposed to the breeze now. “The leak stopped not long after you repaired the roof,” the waiter who brought him a towel pointed out. “Man, you saved us.”

“It’s nothing,” Ares replied with a deadpan tone.

“Ahoooy, Sir Black Knight~!” the barmaid strolled closer. “Here’s your ginger ale. And I got you a bowl of warm soup here for the shirtless hero who saved the day!”

“Thank you,” Ares gave a simple nod and smiled faintly at her.

“W-wow,” the barmaid sighed, returning to the counter, “never knew he could do that.”

“You’ll be surprised,” Lene laughed.

“So this is why you are swooning…”

“No? It’s YOU who have been looking at him with such greedy eyes!”

“Aha~ don’t tell me you are…”

“I am—what?”

“Nothing, nothing! Okay, swooning girl!”

“Aah, don’t call me that!” Lene grumbled, taking the clothing articles Ares had left on her from the counter. “So! Here is your cape, the shoulder armor…” she listed, “I think that will be all. You did not leave Mystletainn with me.”

“I suppose we are all trapped here until the rain calms down a bit, eh?” Ares draped his cape over his shoulders but not tying it. He pensively glanced outside, the ginger ale glass was still in his hand. Sudden thunder sound wrecked the blissful silence he was basking in, and Ares found himself reflexively drop the glass he was holding.

_SPLASH._

His eyes widened when the ginger ale spilled on the floor. Arching his back to retrieve the glass from the floor, he growled faintly as he moved to set the glass on the table he occupied. Ares ruffled his damp hair before bringing both his open hands before his eyes. Glancing at people, who were unaware of the tumultuous emotions surging inside his chest, he slammed his own palms into his face, growling a bit louder this time. A scene from his childhood began emerging around him as if it was projected into a big screen—the thunder which startled him as a little boy when a supposed assassin stood at the corner of his room, with his father leaping to fend him off with Mystletainn drawn in a leonine manner—something he inherited besides the Lionheart’s blade and beautiful golden hair. Then there was a thunder which served like an omen because once the sky was clear enough for a travel, Eldigan the Lionheart loaded him and his mother into a carriage telling cross guards to not stop before they reached his mother’s hometown in Leonster. The journey was exhausting, and what he initially thought to be a period of retreat and waiting turned into the worst nightmare when his mother finally found out the Lion had gone to Heaven. Ares recalled the cold hungry nights when he had no other choice but burying his face in Grahnye’s bony arms as thunder tore the sky above their modest rented compartment. Or even before ‘Lady of House Nordion’ felt like a fleeting surreal memory, there was an ominous thunder as his grandfather locked both of them out of his study to escape as Leonster burned and armed fliers began to deliver death from above. He recalled his trembling hands snatching leftover dinners from the unaware restaurant-goers and bar-frequenters because thunders drowned other sounds he might make, but to reach to the plates he first had to smack his little head to stop squirming.

Ares’ hastily took his hands off his face when he sensed a movement close to him. It was always like that—his sharp reflexes, his battle-hardened instant reactions and constant vigilant eyes which would screen the surroundings to classify whether he would prey or be preyed. On a close proximity like that he would yank his cape to throw at the approaching person as a mean to steal chance from the element of surprise. While the person was busy with the cape he would be unsheathing Mystletainn in that very split second to lunge a thrust forward; the cape should shield him from the blood rain he created—

“Here you go, another ginger ale. Or perhaps you want some mulled wine like the carriage driver?”

His cape remained intact over his shoulders and neither did he unsheathe the demon sword.

“Ginger ale is—fine,” his voice broke in his throat as he silently thanked the gods the thunder stopped. “I will take you home while the rainfall subsides. I—thank you.”

Lene merely gave a small nod when he offered. She had seen him holding on to whatever was left of his already limited display of emotion when a sharp roaring thunder cleaved the air in twain. She had caught him softly growling like a wounded lion, and somehow it traveled to her like a cry of pain that was long overdue. And somehow it felt too close. She recalled cold nights when she had to share a blanket with other church orphans when the rain came down and sharp breeze slapped them. She recalled falling on the slippery ground as her face, wet with both tears and raindrops, gazed at the sky thinking of a mother she vaguely remembered. The cold surface of the ground where she had been practicing countless times, where her eyes would land when she was too frustrated because her legs did not make perfect splits and spins as she wanted.

Perhaps other people had been right all along when they said she and Ares were actually alike. She conveyed her gratitude for his presence in the quiet meal boxes she gave him knowing Ares would refuse being thanked to, and the totally oh-so eloquent Ares… _not,_ she thought with a smile, did better than he talked since his actions already spoke louder than his awkward words ever could.

Ares took his shirt back. It was still rather damp, but he paid no mind to it. He took a quick gulp on the soup the barmaid had set for him, feeling rather weird because it did not taste as rich as usual compared to the one she made for him. Ares shook his head again, feeling rather ridiculous for comparing foods, or even wondering if Lene was actually undisturbed since it was unlike what she made before. He spared some formal goodbyes and thank-yous to everyone else, heading to the stable where his mustang was— safe and sound from the weather.

Lene’s hold of him tightened as he strengthened his grip on the rein when another thunder broke the night above them.

 

* * *

 

“Come on in.”

“No need.”

“You are wet again.”

“It is already late.”

“You can have tea.”

“I can have that at my headquarter.”

She made an exasperated sound before tugging on his drenched sleeve, pulling him inside with all her might. “Oops,” sparing a mischievous wink at him as she tumbled upon his weight, she slammed the door closed behind his back.

He shook his head.

She shook her head back.

He folded his arms.

She hastily followed suit folding her arms.

“No,” he eventually spoke.

“Yes,” she countered, before inhaling in frustration. “Ares, we got rained on the way here and again you are soaked to the bones—even the previous battle scar has not healed yet!”

Another thunder loudly announced its arrival, and Ares merely shrugged with a melancholic expression on his face. “Right.” _That sound. The flashing lightning. The cold weather—_

“I mean you are still wet from your previous carpentering adventure,” she reiterated, “… but that works too. We could have stopped somewhere else, you know?”

“I am not parking this boy at a dark alley with you as my passenger,” he stared at her.

“And then you get wet. Smart,” she stared back.

“And you don’t. So what’s the point of this argument?” he shrugged dismissively.

She bit her lips. Well, that one was true. When another batch of rainfall came over them, he had kept riding with one hand while another nimbly yanking the cape and threw it over her. The thick black cape and his tall posture shielded her from most of the rain drops, but he was worse than a soaking leaf when they arrived at her apartment compound. “Exactly because I don’t,” she reasoned.

“I don’t… understand,” Ares stared blankly. Like he said, he had been riding nightly recently, and more and more getting slapped by sudden rainfall or cold breeze was to be expected than not. He was used to fight on horseback as much as he was on foot, so maintaining one-hand riding for a while was not something unheard of for him if she had qualms about using his cape as a raincoat.

“Then come here,” her tone softened. She tugged on his sleeve again, ushering him to the mirror like she would do to a child. “You are wet,” she pointed at his hair, “your shirt is drenched,” her index finger moved to his chest, “and this shoulder armor must be heavy now,” her finger made its final stop. It was frustrating, and she would not even deny it. But Ares’ obliviousness… if not innocence, was so over the top at times, and it pained her to see him getting genuinely surprised when people expressed their concerns to him.

“Then they will dry as I ride back home,” Ares shrugged again, “and that armor is just fine for me.”

_Home. Where is ‘home’?_

“Ares,” she was really displeased this time.

“Then goodnight,” he nodded, much to her dismay.

“Would you truly leave?!” she nearly slammed the tea cups she was setting on the table. “At least…”

“Why does it concern you?” he asked again. Flat tone, poker face, straight to the point.

“The road is slippery,” she tried to reason, purposefully tailing their conversation while pouring some nice herbal chamomile tea into the cups. “At least wait a bit until it is safe to ride again.”

“My horse is a war horse. I’ve never met a terrain it can’t sail.”

“The tea is ready though,” she gestured cheekily on the cups, and he relented. Well, it was not like he was not aware she was quickly boiling some when they arrived, however…

“I will empty this in one take then,” he brought the cup into his lips.

“That one is blazing warm, Sir Ares, so stop being a stubborn piece of meat for a second, at least for the sake of conserving your throat,” Lene began to lose her patience as well. “You really think you can outdo me? How many times do you need a proof that you are not the only stubborn person here?”

“It’s just that I…” Ares contemplated the tea cup in his hand, “… am not used to chit-chats. I take the job, I do it, I collect what is necessary and then returning until the next mission calls for me. And usually that is how it goes, so I really have no idea why you insist on… making me comfortable.”

“… Are you saying I am a job for you?”  

Ares peeked from the cup which liquid he was about to drink. Lene got up from the sofa she occupied. There was a trail of redness on her face as she looked another way to hide her expression from him, and he did not know what to make of it all. Was she angry? Was she hurt? Gods be damned if he could even elaborate that, as if the art of oration itself was ever his forte from the beginning. Yet he could not deny that this little urge in his chest that barged him to get her back, because for some reason he just could not stand it when she appeared distressed. “Hold on.”

“I’ll get everything set for you then.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Tell me how much you charge,” her tone was defiant, and he could only catch her shadow if not the rustling sounds of her gown as she turned away, steering her paces to her room.

“What?”

“Stay where you are,” she stressed. “I’m not saying you can enter my room.”

“Ah. Yes, of course—“ Ares raised his hands, stopping where he stood. His eyes widened when Lene was back to where he was with her purse in hand. “… and just what is this now?”

“Paying you,” she clutched her purse, dumping everything inside on the sofa, “and returning this too while we are at it.”

“I am not so low to take that back, _Ma’am_ ,” he now glared at her.

“By all means, do so, _Sir_ ,” she returned the courtesy. “It’s just a job to you, is that it? You do not care what happens to you anyway as long as the contract is fulfilled. Well, if you are going to treat me like a contract and a job, why not collecting your payment when you are done?”

“Ridiculous. I’m not taking a penny from you like this,” Ares rushed to the sofa, stopping her hands, which were now busy arranging banknotes and coins after dumping everything inside the purse.

“Taking a penny? Why, aren’t I paying you as your client?”

“Miss Lene, I do not deliver a lady safely to where she stays only to commit robbery the next fucking second,” he stated sharply. “So you better stop this because I am not interested.”

“Why is it okay for you but not for me?” she countered even sharper. “You make a bad businessman, Sir Ares—“ she wanted to reach for the banknotes, but his hands moved faster and in no time they were fixed on her wrists. “Hnnn—“

He did not budge. It was not like he even made any effort at all to stop her, and she silently cussed herself forgetting—well, this was fucking Ares, alright—and if some tough guys she had seen so far did not stand a chance against him, let alone her. Ares did not hurt her there at all, but him planting his grip there signaled he was dead set about the payment. “I’m not taking your money,” he reiterated firmly before gently letting her go. “And let me get one thing straight here in the very least—I am a mercenary. I am not the chief, and it is mostly Javarro who takes care of that matter.”

“Then I will get him right away to ask what people usually pay you,” she tried again, noticing the subtlety in his potent strength when he reflexively moved to stop her drawing money.

“Then to do so I’ll need to get back right now with you, is that correct?” he raised an eyebrow, trying to mask the sudden temptation to grin knowing he had defeated her at her own game.

“I’ll lock you up here if necessary!” she glared at him. “And bold of you to assume I don’t glare.”

“You are locking me in your room?” he suavely countered, prompting her awkwardness.

“There is that bathroom for your stubborn head there,” she tried again. Well well, for someone who just called him stubborn, she was sure a contender. And why the hell her cheeks felt burning the more playful his response was there?!

“And have you cleared your laundry from my view if you are going to lock me there?”

“Ares—“

“I think I just cancelled a payment.”

“Or not, because I can think of one of those cupboards under the counter of my pantry to lock you up.”

“So you are locking me up where the food is stored? Such a benevolent captor.”

“Alright,” she huffed, yanking his mullet harder than usual, “and shut up your _face_.” The so-called debate had turned into a tangent, and it dawned on her that Ares could not possibly miss it too. Otherwise, why would that damn handsome devil shift his demeanor as his tone grew playful and playful?

“Understood,” Ares nodded solemnly like a knight addressing his lord.

“… Since that one is concluded,” she inhaled again, ready for all the unfolding possibilities because of what she was about to say, “… then go. After all I make a naïve captor, don’t I?”

“I have a question first,” he said, “did your wrists hurt, do they now, and are they still?”

“That is three,” Lene could not resist commenting.

“It’s already late, so I have to make the most of my time,” he countered. “Well?”

“No,” she answered. “… It’s not like you can’t tell if they were, anyway…”

He coughed softly, downing the warm liquid that was tea she prepared for him; a gesture which did not escape her. “All these things… genuinely feel strange to me, I suppose,” he muttered slowly, putting the cup back to the table. “I just felt the need to do what I did so far. Somehow…”

“You can just say I’m pestering you,” she tried to hide her expression by reaching for her own cup, “and I think it will save your breath more than having to… play guess with me.”

“If only that was the answer,” he replied frankly. “After all, nobody else ever bothered to get me to pay attention to things the way you do so far, so…” he coughed again.

“So…?” she reached for her own cup, hoping to hide her expression behind the privacy her porcelain granted. There was a flash of light peeking into the window, and seconds after another thunder could be heard from the outside. As she nearly spilled her own drink her eyes traveled to where he sat—this close, he looked visibly shaken although he managed to save her cup so it did not meet the same fate as the ginger ale glass he dropped at the bar. He was lucky because it was made of wood, but her cup…

“Perhaps because nobody else cared about me the way you do.”

His bluntness successfully stopped her. Well, gods be damned first and then damn her too second—she nearly forgot how blunt he could be, besides his trademark stubbornness. What a nice combination in a person to fight against, yet at times she secretly praised both qualities because he was honest and always up to fulfill whatever he said he would do. And she realized it was probably the case. He was a mercenary. They needed his blade and powerful cuts, not him running around his mouth or sitting contemplatively like a philosopher. And she hardly heard of instances where people hardly cared if an infamous warrior would be soaking wet due to the rainfall or if he did not slip and die off the rooftop.

It also did not escape her that he returned her cup on the table with trembling hand.

“You can just yell at me that you hated it,” she thought after a while. That did not sound like a lovely alternative indeed, but… “Or do you see me as a person in need of… pity?” with bluntness getting paid back with another bluntness, she braced herself for his answer. She probably would hate herself more for even asking, but now that it started, she was determined to see it until the end. At least she would not be there feeling perplexed for not feeling up to mischief when the barmaid supposedly praised his features. … Or if she did not start feeling a bit smug now that people began telling her their taciturn Black Knight only heeded her so far—with the fact that he hardly batted an eye when she called him a friend…

“That exactly is what surprised me—I do not hate these at all,” his frankness made a way again. “And I was just thinking the least I could do to be grateful of you is by keeping you safe and comfortable.”

 _So that’s why…_ Lene put down her cup, totally did not expect the answer. “I thought you would be too proud to take my money because—“

“—because I am a stubborn asshole, yeah,” he coughed again, louder this time. “I never meant to trade and bargain with you. So how could you expect me to treat you in a frame of business? Besides—“

“Besides?”

“… I do not have anything valuable on me so far to repay all the things you do for me.”

“Ares—“

He sneezed. It came hard and loud, surprising himself too. “Sorry about that,” he muttered sheepishly, before softly cursing that soaking clothes practically meant his handkerchief was wet too. “Thank you for the tea,” he rose with a slight bow at her. “I will take my leave now—“

“Ares, watch out!” she reflexively leaped from the sofa, tugging on him again when he appeared to mindlessly walk into a wall. “Why, Ares—hold on—oh… gods,” she gasped.

“I did not… destroy anything, I hope?”

His voice sounded like floating at the moment, as if it came out in a delirious manner. “No, of course not. But you are having a fever,” she said, clutching on his drenched sleeves and felt his hands.

“Impossible.”

“Possible, are you a human or an annoyingly stubborn horseradish?” she responded without a second thought. “Pardon me—“

“Pardoned.”

Ignoring his delirious replies she moved her hand to feel the sides of his neck. It was warm as she feared. So those coughs, the sneeze just now—“… Ares, I think you might be sick.”

“That can’t be.”

“It can be,” she patiently responded, standing on her tip-toes to feel his forehead. “You are feverish.”

“I’ll tell it to go fuck itself then.”

“No, Ares,” she gently dragged him back to the sofa. “You need to rest and sleep.”

“I,” he tried to get up, “do not.”

However dizziness started to take over him as soon as he tried. His surroundings spun around him, and Lene grew even more concerned when he clutched on her out of reflex. The mighty Ares never did that before. Usually he was the rock she would lean on to, but this time…

She acted quickly, just like the way he wasted no time deciding to save the bar by voluntarily fixing the roof. “Come on, Ares,” she whispered. “Please. Just this once, please.” Then it crossed her mind that Ares might have been unwell for a while but he simply ignored everything. Then chances were he was already unwell the moment he got on the roof to fix it…

Ares nearly slammed his body against hers just so he could stand properly. Lene tumbled backward, her hand clutching on the wall so she did not fall. Such a mighty lion, she contemplated, feeling his weight pressing on hers, the sturdiness of his trained shoulders which nearly sent her flying. But right now he was a sick kitten. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. His voice still came off floating, but unlike prior he did not protest as much. Lene felt so thrown in between—it grinded her ears when he was stubborn, but seeing him so powerless and weak made her sad.

“It’s alright,” she whispered again. “Lean on me. Come on. It’s alright. It truly is alright.”

Ares made a grunting annoyed sound, which she now knew was meant for himself and his predicament than her. Still, he obediently followed her to get inside, and he could only made disapproving disgruntled sounds when she ushered him to her bedroom.

“No.”

“Looks like I’ll need to lock you here after all,” she chuckled, trying to lighten the mood knowing well he was so ashamed of his own condition at the moment.

“I can sleep on the sofa,” he protested.

“Ares, it is right near the door. When the night falls it will be cold there,” she gently took on his protests, one by one like coaxing a child. And perhaps it was not even entirely wrong—that moment she felt like she could travel to the past, finding the lost little Ares who was scared, doubtful, and hurt, and she wished she could reach out to the terrified child to give the refuge he dreamed of.

“I’m not staying long here.”

“I hope so too.”

“See,” he coughed again, “better to just say that.”

“No, dumbass,” she purposefully used the word, imitating his tone, “because I want you to be healthy.”

“… Alright,” with his eyes half-closed due to the headache, he gestured shyly to her, “then I suppose I will… take these off, so…” he gestured to his clothes, to which she merely smiled.

“I’ll have them washed and dried before the fireplace. If the sky is clearer in the morning, I’ll put them outside,” she nodded. “I’ll get you blankets. I’ll see if there is something I can do for…”

“… not seeing me naked,” he smirked, earning instant hair-ruffling from her. “I may need that cape-wrap like you did to yourself before.”

“This is retribution for flaunting your height,” she teased back as soon as the opening was there.

“I’ve bumped into five canopies today, just so you know,” his expression turned sour, earning her giggles. He could only watch as Lene tore into her own closet, fetching three blankets she could find and hastily bringing it to him.

“Ummm, I will leave now so you can…”

“… get naked in peace. Thank you for being so thoughtful,” likewise, he also did not waste his chance when opportunity knocked, and his tender chuckles serenaded the room when she blushed and bolted out of there. Ares sighed, watching his surroundings, feeling so odd at an instant. He had been there when he picked up the herbs grannie to treat her, where he was close to maim her closet thinking there was a home invasion. But now he slept on her bed, and normally he would need time to adjust with a new room if not simply because of how careful and alert he and his battle-hardened instincts had become.

The room was more decorated than his simple barrack, which did not surprise him. It was also clean and neat, conveying a peaceful atmosphere and calming feeling which exactly what one needed to have a good night sleep. She had put her lantern near a water basin—a simple decision he secretly praised her for. Her sword was clothed, leaning neatly against the right side of the wall where the bed was, and again he praised her anticipating alertness because it was close to her dominant hand and could be drawn quickly. As much as he felt proud of her, sadness began to creep into his heart. A battle-ready sword kind of felt out of place in a beautiful comfortable room like this, and he knew he lamented the fact that she had thought of these precautions more than it was about décor propriety.

Ares took his clothes, slowly, one by one. His shoulder armor felt so crass when he dropped it on the floor, contrasting the beautiful sanctuary that was Lene’s room. He could see her earthly-color mantle hanging neatly before him, and the smell of fresh jasmine and roses fondled his nose the moment he lied on her bed. Drawing the blankets she left him to cover half of his body, he suddenly pondered how weird today had been. He had sent her back when he sensed it was going to rain, yet she defiantly came out with an umbrella and pulled him in exactly when he felt like he had no place to share the same space with hers. And there he was, regretting his tactlessness which broke her heart a moment ago, yet upon seeing him in his feeble state she still offered him a refuge…

His lips curved and he was powerless to stop it. He was stubborn, but so was she.

There was a soft knocking outside, so he pulled the blanket higher. “Yes,” he answered, suddenly feeling relieved that she was going to be back in the room instead of leaving him alone with his thoughts as well as the sudden surge of warmth he never thought of feeling. His hand reflexively went to feel his forehead again, feeling foolish because of course he would not be able to do that since he was the sick one. He wondered, however—could you feel fever in your heart instead of your body?

Lene strolled in. Her smile lighted the room as she came closer to set a tray on the countertop. “You need to eat something,” she said softly. “You did not even finish the soup.”

“It tasted different compared to what you got me the other night,” he admitted.

“I think your tongue is losing its taste sense,” she murmured, “you have cold. It is normal. It is alright.”

_… So that is… why._

It did not escape him that she had been using the phrase for a couple of times since they found out that he was unwell. “These blankets all have cute motifs,” he pointed at the blankets which helped barricading his modesty at the moment, chuckling a little bit. One was pink with embroidered strawberries and oranges on it, another bore some beautiful calming white and blue floral motifs over a white base.  The third blanket had embroidery of animal patterns, and he could see a rabbit peeking in between a cat and a puppy. That one especially made him grin, relishing in the fact that he was not so off when he called her a rabbit.

“Next time I get to visit you, you have to show me all your tasteless, fashion war-criminal blankets.”

“… I don’t sleep with a blanket, Lene,” he rose a little bit. “It… hinders movements.”

“So you have been sleeping with your typical clothing even though the nights are cold lately?” she stared at him in disbelief. His reason did not escape her either—she knew too well what he implied there. The what-if and what-about scenarios; suppose people barged into his room with naked blades.

He nodded. “Unless I take unsheathed Mystletainn under it with me.”

“Gods, no wonder your body gives up now. And sleeping with a naked blade? That’s dangerous!” she dragged a chair from her vanity so she could sit close to him. “I’m drying your clothes as we speak. I’ll see what I can find here for you.”

Ares did not protest when she fixed a damp rag over his head. It felt blissfully cooling, a counterpart to his fever and the same odd, yet warm feeling poked him in the chest again. Only his mother ever did that, and all her gestures came off touching to him. He clicked his tongue, feeling disappointed of himself for getting melancholically sentimental that each kind gesture she displayed felt like an ointment to an open, gushing old wound which still bled.

Lene blew on the bowl she put on the countertop, taking a bite to taste it. “It’s cool enough now.”

“I can eat on my own,” Ares quickly took the bowl from her.

“Hehehe. I told you again and again, it is alright. No need to act strong, Sir Lion Cub,” she giggled sweetly, yet letting him to have his way regardless. And she understood she needed to press gently to make Ares accept all the caring gestures, knowing that it literally took him to not be able to stand just so he admitted he was not feeling well.

“It is… porridge,” Ares blurted out. How many years had it passed since he had that? Sometimes he even forgot he was a little boy once. His childhood felt like a rapid dream, and suddenly he was a grown man bathing in blood and a sworn vengeance he did not have the chance to take.

“It is,” she smiled at him again, “and there is milk too for you there… is your nose runny?”

“Thankfully no.”

“It may be after the fever breaks down,” she said, “and then instead of that deep voice you will sound like a frog.”

“Girls usually despise frogs,” he could not resist to take on her.

“What do you know about girls?” she countered just for the sake of countering.

“Of course I do,” he said sullenly, “… actually you are right.”

She shared his chuckles, leaving him with the porridge while she proceeded to tear into her closet once again. After the concerning sounds of thumping-some things and her soft squealing of bumping into the door, she dragged two pieces of fabric and hastily got out from there.

Ares contemplated his predicament again. He wondered if Lene actually noticed at all that… he was lying there naked—saved his loincloth, actually—in her room. That as nice as she probably thought of him, he was still a man, and he would be more than understanding if his presence, let alone his predicament, would unnerve her. Either Lene was too nice or too innocent, he could not say for sure—and there he was, smirking again when he realized that her comment regarding girls was true even if playful.

Lene came back with a little box. She checked on the damp fabric, soaking it into the water basin and rinsing it before reapplying it on his forehead. “We will do this regularly until your fever breaks,” her voice was so calm and comforting, and for a moment a deliriously feverish Ares thought his mother was cradling him in his warm bed. In Nordion palace, where everything was safe, secure, and happy. Where he would only need to call when he needed his mighty father.

“And that’s…” he awkwardly pointed out at the box, including a pair of scissor and a measuring ribbon inside. She still clutched the fabrics.

“Your emergency shirt,” she responded. “Excuse me for a second…” she lingered closer, so close to him to even be able to feel how her hair smelled. It was lavender—he contemplated— _no, how could fresh grass and sweet tropical fruit smelled so nice_ —he thought again, as she seated herself beside him and began to roll the ribbon from one shoulder end to another. The rustling sound of her dress, the consistency in her smile, the warm milk in his throat, the nicest porridge he ever had—

“I take that I caused you trouble.”

“These are costumes from last year’s winter solstice. So we staged a modest theatrical play with a story of an annoyed rancher who cussed the snow for making his cattle cold,” she chuckled a bit, and he did not need to ask to understand her memory about it was a fond one. “It is made of flannel, so I can imagine it will be warm enough for you to wear. I’ll just put some silk under it as the layer so it will feel soft on the skin… and I heard some cavalrymen used padded silk for their armor, Ares?”

“And what about this year’s solstice?” he interrupted, “and yes. It is actually good against arrows.”

“Then what is meant for later shall be discussed later,” she smiled again. “Also… ah, so it is true then! Well, this emergency shirt will fit all your checklist including the security part, right? Anyway, so the rancher danced with the livestock and embarked on a journey to confront the snow goddess…”

“And you were the rancher.”

“Exactly! How did you tell? Silver-tongued fellows would say I was the goddess!”

“Do you want to know?” he smirked. “You won’t like my answer.”

“I do not fancy your silence either.”

“Well,” he coughed softly, “when I first saw you, you were cussing a mud pond like you did a person.”

“You have a memory of a hunting lion,” she replied in a chiding manner, reaching for a cup of water she had put on the countertop with the rest of the food she brought in for him, thanking the dim-lighted room for concealing her red face. “I guess that role did suit me.”

“Just because you played the rancher does not mean you are not fitting for the goddess.”

“… Shut up your face again,” she looked away, embarrassed. When he was about to protest because he said it in all honesty and not to mess with her, she scraped for whatever left on the bowl and shoved the spoon at his face.

“Peppery,” he commented, finishing the last bite of his porridge before setting it back on the countertop.

“Mm-hmm,” she cheerfully nodded. “I went extra with the spices! I figured you’d probably lose appetite so I made something stronger.”

“I am thankful you are not an assassin,” he blurted.

“Here we go again,” she rolled her eyes.

“… I mean you will make a formidable one considering…” he pulled the blanket again, “how precise you are. … Why does everything feel so right? I never heard being sick is supposed to be like this.”

Lene stopped, weighing in whether it was his fever which just talked or he genuinely said that. She went to feel his forehead again, sensing his temperature and judged it was the former. “Sleep well, Ares,” she whispered. “And you still have this knack of saying the darndest things with a straight face no matter what.”

“I can’t.”

“You will,” Lene was more than determined to bet on all her chances—she reached for his hair, which he ignored thinking it would be typical mullet-yanking as usual, when…

“… Hezul help me.”

Lene giggled again when Ares moaned what he just said. He stared helplessly at his hair, which by then had been neatly braided and tied with the pastel violet measurement ribbon she had with her. “Awh, what a pretty, pretty lion cub with such a fashionable groomed mane.”

“Lene.”

“Hnnn~?”

“LENE.”

“You can’t get up. You are naked.”

“Goshfriggindarnit,” he muttered under his breath, taking the tip of his braid and swinging it back and forth like it was a strange unidentified object. “Why is this damn ribbon so soft?!”

“That is not the softest I have.”

“What is with you and soft ribbons and all these cute fabrics?!”

“… What is with you and hating on them?! Aha, you don’t like pastel violet?”

“No.”

“I have a pastel pink one too, let me get that for you—“

“NO.”

“No~?”

“Do I have to leap off here naked to wrestle you?”

“Oh goodness. Aright, alright!” she sighed, exasperated while her other arm threw a pile of yarn at him, to which he merely smirked.

The world became quiet after that. As the night fell and banters and comical lines were exchanged between them as usual, Lene resumed working on the fabrics while he curiously peeked on her. Under the dim lantern light and an extra one she brought inside for her sewing he saw how serious and determined she was, and somehow something in that face… that expression… and the effort she put to nurse him back to health somehow made him feel relaxed and comfortable.

“What?” Lene batted her eyelashes, sensing his eyes on her. She still said it cheerfully while her fingers actively pulling the thread in a pattern. One after another, then another one—

“I am not supposed to be here. This is… strange.”

“We are not supposed to be sick, but sometimes we are, Ares,” she replied calmly. Her scissors set sail over the fabrics she was holding once again, making pieces she cut gracefully drop to the ground. Graceful—his watchful eyes paid attention to the sequence in a contemplative manner.

_Just like her dances._

“… Useless, aren’t I?”

“Who said that, your horse?” she cheerfully commented where she sat. He sounded so bitter this time, and she could not pretend she did not catch the utter frustration in his voice. Ah, a lion’s stubbornness—or rather, a stubborn warrior’s leonine ego. She did not think she could separate those two when it came to him, but right now she would gladly fight either if it meant dragging him back to rest. “We just went through this. Now sleep.”

“I suppose there is nothing else I can do…”

“Exactly—“ the response she initially meant to be merry became a concerned one when he balled his fist, contemplating it. “… Ares?”

“A swordsman who can’t fight is no better than a dead one. Even the dead one is better because he is not hindering anyone.”

“Ares, what are you...”

“Perhaps it is good that I am here, secluded from the rest of the group. I would only slow them down had I insisted returning in this condition. You saw that too, didn’t you—I guess I have to thank you.”

She folded her arms when hearing that. Her expression was a mix of disapproval and sadness, and she did not just let him have it. “I do not like that.”

“Neither do I. What a joke—having to be helped just to stand properly.”

“No, Ares,” she gathered her resolve, combating him heads-on. Her gesture and tone were both steadfast, and if Ares was well enough at the moment, he should sense that her victory was guaranteed. “I do not begrudge you for being sick. I am sad that you think of yourself as a disposable… I don’t know, disposable-something. Do not insult me thinking I’m appraising you like a livestock.”

“I am though,” he said bluntly. “My group relies on me. If I cannot do the only thing I am trained for—“

“You are more than Mystletainn and swordfighting techniques.”

“Lene—“

“You are more than the martial prowess people depend on you for.”

“But—“

“You fixed the roof.”

“Everyone else was busy and the barkeep just could not admit he was too old for that, even if he did not sprain his arm.”

“And who got him off the ladder again?”

“Well, I was right down there so I did?”

“Exactly. And who relented suggesting for a healer knowing he probably could not withstand you twisting his arm back to normal?”

“What are you suggesting? Not hurting the elderly should be normal instead of a lauded quality.”

“Then I recall this same person tried to shelter me from the pouring rain and still insisted taking me home even when he was supposed to be aware he was not well…” her tone was playful.

“Well,” Ares cleared his throat with a red face.

“And then his ineloquence ass of a brick insisted not taking anything…”

“Then karma bit that ass of a brick since I am here,” he muttered sheepishly. “I still don’t get it.”

“You are much more than that,” she gently pointed at Mystletainn, “the way you are capable of other things than shedding blood even if you are unaware of it. You are not irreplaceable is what I am saying. So don’t you ever. Goodness, you really think I befriended you because of your sword? If I wanted that, why don’t I just go to the armory every day and bask in there until they kick me out?”

He paused, studying her. He wanted to say anything, but her telling him about being irreplaceable ceased every ‘but’ and ‘still’ he wanted to muster. She ended her response in her typical manner—the fake frustrated huffing gesture, the jest. Yet as always she said more than what her words conveyed, and somehow that night he was really pleased hearing them. As if she just broke a seal, letting various emotions he secretly tried to decipher to flow like a vast current of river waters. _Unconditional, huh_ —he looked at Mystletainn, which was parked near her sword. She was mindful when it came to that too, knowing he would never part with Mystletainn no matter what. But at the same time she also insisted on him getting the rest he needed, so instead of placing Mystletainn on the bed, the sword was there where he could see, but he would need more move to reach for it. Still, the sight of Mystletainn served as a comfort, and it helped him adjusting with the new room he would be sleeping for tonight.

She looked up from the fabrics she was sewing, catching his perplexed look. “No more brooding practice. Sleep before I bludgeon you to,” she jested again. “You may think you will only get better so you can return to the battlefield, but—“ she bit her lips, “at least one person here wants you to recover for the sake of recovery itself—umm, without you to disturb and defeat, no fun!”

“I am a man too.”

She paused, putting down the sewing kit she had in her hands. And he was back to silently cuss his ineloquence—again she was right when she told him that he could say the darndest things with a straight face… or tone, if he was to correct her. Ares regretted what he did at an instant. Perhaps he only made Lene to contemplate what he just said, which might as well come off rather blunt. What if _that_ unnerved her instead? Why did this sudden incident of seasonal cold bother him more than he was supposed to care about? And why did she care? Did she perhaps take a pity on him because he appeared so pathetically weak now that he was sick? She casually took him in, attending to him as he laid almost completely naked in her bed, under the layers of _her_ blankets. Was she that naïve?

“I never said you are not,” she shook her head softly, stretching the fabrics and reached for her sewing kit to replace the yarn. “I just got an idea! Want some lemon tea to ease your throat?”

“I mean,” he contested, but she shook her head again.

“A sick man is as dangerous as a kitten,” her reply came out casually, and she laughed on his confused, pondering expression. “And people get sick sometimes regardless of gender, you know?”

“I am not _that_ docile or incapacitated,” he tried again, his tone was sullen.

Lene smiled… again. _The lion still has an ego of a lion,_ she pondered. “Then it is because I trust you,” she flicked him in the nose. “Enough talking, I mean it! You need a great sleep.”

_She trusts me? … Me …. Trust?_

Ares paused again for a moment. “… Lene.”

“Hnnn~?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Are you still concerned about it?” she sighed, “if you are not a pig, then you are not a pig.”

“It’s just—I’ve always slept alone,” he finally confessed. “Easier… and more secure that way.”

“Then I’ll be outside,” she simply stated without any hesitation in her voice. Without further ado she rose from the chair she had been occupying, one hand was full with the fabrics and sewing kit while another went to reach for the extra lantern she previously brought in. “I will check on you later though. You will need that rag replaced.”

“No.”

“I’m not taking a no until you recover,” she laughed, her index finger reigned on his lips. “Besides, to protest me you will need to be in your prime again.”

Ares looked at her. Lene expected him to still protest—considering this was Ares, the stubborn Ares she had come to know better. And she was ready with arguments, knowing well it would most likely end with her coaxing him like a child again. On the other hand she actually understood why Ares was even more adamant and stubborn than the usual—even if she was to say so herself. Recalling her own experience dealing with a weak leg and how determined she was to do things on her own, she shamefully admitted that she was actually similar to him in not wanting to be, or at least appear, weak.

But what she did not expect was when he cast aside her hand… to pull her in.

“I mean stay.”

She stopped.  She arched to bend, feeling the temperature on his forehead. He was still feverish, so she did not think much of the words. Yet her hand was still in his palm, and for a reason she could not phrase, such gesture sent a throbbing feeling inside her chest. “Um—Ares…?”

“You said it would be cold outside,” he murmured.

“O… oh,” she nodded awkwardly, not sure what else to say. “T-that is correct.”

“Then stay.”

“You are… not used to having other people around you when you sleep,” she thought a bit.

 “But I am used to having you around,” he stated in a deadpan manner, reaching for the water when another cough escaped his lips. “So we can try.”

Lene did not say anything except mumbling a simple “Alright,” as she returned to the chair, feeling his forehead once again. The fever was still there, yet Ares’ words came out certain instead of delirious.

“… Tell me more about the theatrical play,” he whispered. His eyes were closed, and judging from his voice and his relaxed demeanor it seemed to her that he was slowly adjusting. Perhaps the milk and the herbs started kicking in and the effect caused his body to be at ease, but as far as she knew, she had not heard of herbs or remedies which could make people blurt some tender honesty during the night.

“You need to sleep,” she answered.

“If you talk, I know you are there,” in what looked like between delirium and not Ares sighed again, lowering his position so he lied down comfortably on the bed.

“You think I’m going to bolt out to challenge cold breeze just to spite you?” she chuckled.

“Who knows?” he exhaled softly, “I am not the only stubborn person here.”

“… Ares.”

“Hmmm?”

“I will… need my hand to sew,” she breathed. She wondered if he realized he was practically still holding her hand there. There was a pang of cheekiness inside of her which kept urging her to find out whether it was unintentional or that he was unconsciously melancholic because he was unwell.

He looked down. “I, uh…” he ruffled his own fringes, gentle shades of crimson began to color his cheeks as a company to his sheer awkwardness. “… I did not mean to restrain you and I uh—guess I will need to thank you for the emergency shirt?”

“It’s alright,” she repeated the magic phrase, again with the same tone as before. “Your speedy recovery will do it... and perhaps, with a tempered stubbornness,” she chuckled mischievously when saying that.

“I suppose,” his eyes glinted to respond to her jocularity, “I can do one more thing if you don’t mind?”

“Let’s see,” she grinned, “you are sick, your hair is braided, you loved my porridge, you had your milk and remedies, and on top of that you are lying naked under the protective layers of three blankets. Sounds like you have no chance to win no matter what you do, so… what can you do?”

“Thanking you.”

She let out a reflexive soft gasp when he casually pulled her in closer. His gesture was nothing but conducted with utmost gentleness, as if he gauged the potential after-effect his action might cause. Ares took her hand closer to him, slightly arching his neck while he was at it. She truly did not expect him to do this, not at all, not that day, not that night …. His nose and lips tenderly grazed on the back of her hand; he was indeed hand-kissing her, and she had to clutch on her bed post thinking she was about to melt—

_I do not have anything valuable on me so far to repay all the things you do for me._

His words haunted her. She hardly even thought of asking that—darn it—considering his way to thank her so far was actually more than what she could bargain for. The buddy-system, the night rides, the way he ensured her well-being, the way he could not give a rat-ass about her profession or what their society deemed to be proper. And yet…

“I can’t bow to you in this predicament,” he said, traces of the leonine demeanor visible in his eyes. Just then he withdrew. There was a triumphant smirk on that audaciously handsome face, and Lene retreated to her chair, clutching the hand he just kissed, pressed to her chest like it was something she was determined to protect if not feel. Damn Ares and his suaveness when he meant it. Damn him and his beautiful golden hair, damn his tender chuckles and sharp eyes—

“I—see…” her response came out weak, much, much weaker than she planned it to be.

“… Little scoundrel,” he muttered, reaching for the water once again when his coughing spams returned. Like a wakeup call it neutralized the sheer awkwardness which loomed in the air—if not her subtle shyness and him beginning to worry if he messed with her too much that she went silent.

Lene took off the rag from Ares’ forehead, soaking it in the water basin at the corner of the room, rinsing it one more time as she slowly approached him. She slapped the rag back on his forehead, trying to look displeased and vengeful although—to be fair, her mind was completely blank at the moment. She could not think of any plan to get back on him—not at all. Not tonight. Not like this—

“And the theatrical play?”

His voice startled her. It was deadpan as usual, and he said it in a really, really casual manner as his shoulders began to relax. He took a heave, and she could see how at ease he was at the moment. Then she smiled. She smiled, shaking her head, returning to the chair. Finishing his shirt, it was now her turn to chuckle back. “… You just don’t know when to give up, do you?”

“No,” he heaved again, closing his eyes this time. “I am fucking stubborn. I do not lose what I marked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins to rain nearly daily where I am, so... -cue contemplative brooding-  
> I really stalled writing this at first because the theme feels... intimate, but then eh, let's make it tender to warm these cold nights as the season is about to change I guess 8)
> 
> ETA: yes, it is still me, with a different name heheh.


	16. Joy

He glanced at his side, finding her smiling… no, _beaming,_ probably for the hundredth time today. He had no idea because he lost count. One thing he was sure of was that she had the similar expression when he saw her in the morning.

“Heheheee… ~”

Although the air felt damp and chill because of the night-long heavy rain, the sky was pretty clear, making the atmosphere around them pleasant. And as much as he semi-begrudged her for making him wearing a much lighter color, he was thankful because the shirt she sewed rapidly warmed him up.

“You did that again,” he commented.

But her smile only got wider and tender, contrasting to his sour look. “Nice shirt!”

He clicked his tongue. He should have seen this would come. He recalled how tender she was with him when he spent the night at her place because of the heavy rainfall—and his immune system’s audacity for even _dared_ to catch a cold. He recalled his personal annoyance when he checked that his clothes were not completely dried yet that she had to take them outside under the hesitant morning sun.

But of course, he recalled other things. Like her dozing off at that chair with the shirt she was sewing, still clutched in her hands like a baby cradled in a mother’s loving arms. And more importantly, how he decided to mess around with her a little bit by conveying his gratitude in a hand kiss she seemed to not expect in the very least. Like he said that night, he just could not bow in such predicament…

At that time, he simply thought it was his turn for a payback. After all she braided his hair and neatly tied it with a cute—his expression turned sourer as he recalled it—pastel violet ribbon which he totally did not expect. But he gravely miscalculated. He totally did not expect her hand to feel so soft under his touch, neither did he of the small gasp she made when he took her hand.

Her tender voice, which then recounted the winter solstice play, lulled him to sleep, and he was so sure it was his own mother who had been nursing him, and that he would wake up to the familiarity of Nordion palace and the royal chamber he had the privilege to occupy all by himself despite being a little boy. And Mystletainn would be safely locked in its sheath, hanging on Eldigan’s belt instead of his.

… Perhaps he should not mess with her too much that night because the peaceful atmosphere nearly took him off guard that he thought he was dead. As he struggled with the disorienting reality when he woke up, half of him was satisfied to wake up as an adult because he secretly thanked the gods for the chance to be able relishing the same peaceful feeling he used to have.

He grimaced. “So, when will I see my clothes again?”

“You think I’m purposefully taking them hostage?” she giggled again.

“Maybe?” he replied, three times sourer by then.

“Don’t worry, I have no need for your ugly pants,” she waved her hand, dismissing him.

“… That pair is sturdy and can take a hit, you know…”

“You look sullen.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Pants are ugly.”

“They are not.”

“Sulky Ares,” she laughed again, poking his ribs this time. “… What are you doing?”

“Taking this shirt off, to dump it on you.”

Lene slapped her forehead. “You are sulking like a child.”

“Really?” he raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Because I’d like to see you _drown_ in this one.”

“Height bandit,” now she glared at him.

“It is Ares, Miss, but good morning to you as well,” he caved in, grinning.

“I thought you would still be like this…” she made a coughing gesture, “or even—“ and another, of nose-wiping one. “But your fever broke past midnight? Are you sure you are feeling well now?”

“As good as new,” he nodded. “I do not get sick easily. My parents used to say it is a trait in our family, just like how my strength gradually blossomed as I grew up.”

“Sounds nice… like magic,” she responded, feeling curious out of a sudden. How was his family like? From her chit-chat with him so far she concluded that his sword was a family heirloom, and based on the snippets here and there his father seemed to be a tough warrior too in his prime. What else did he inherit from his parents, then? If he lost his parents at a very young age yet their traits lived strongly in him, perhaps his family was as old as his hometown itself… and where did he hail from again? She wanted to ask about a curious mark she accidentally saw on his body when he was shirtless, but she hesitated. It just did not feel right, pointing at another person’s body even though it was Ares’.  

 _Perhaps some people are just blessed like that,_ she pondered, recalling another dancer who used to point out that she had a good stamina. The other dancer joked that she could take a hit because in the eyes of another, she appeared to have the natural perseverance to endure physical labor, just like how long she could last every night if she seriously forced herself to keep dancing.

“Hey, Ares, what was your father like?” she asked suddenly. Now that he was in a good mood…

He paused a little bit, subconsciously ruffling his hair to comb his fringes. His hair was free of the cute braid prison now, but… “Like me,” he answered simply.

“Thank you, Sir Obvious,” she grumbled.

“Now you are sulking,” he chuckled lightly.

“Because what kind of answer is that? Aha, don’t tell me that you both are actually alike? That he was also tall, strong, and had blond hair like you?” she folded her arms.

“Indeed he was. You got it all right, I’m impressed!”

“Y-you…” Lene yanked  Ares’ mullet again, exactly because of totally innocent he sounded.

“If it helps you to feel better, my mother was frail, though,” he paused a little bit. “She could not fight. Could not wield a sword, could not even punch people. And her hair was brown.”

“I’m not ‘feeling better’,” said Lene. “How would I, knowing she had a difficult life? And if by frail you mean she was not a warrior, to me that sounds like an average person then. I’m not a warrior either. Does that make you feel any different?”

“No?” he was baffled for a second.

“I thought being tall, solemnly deadpanned and has the strength of a lion is a requirement to marry into your family,” she teased him. “Since you need to keep that leonine trait running!”

“Who told you that?” he chuckled a little. “You are your own person and it’s just fine. I don’t care…” his laughter ceased immediately upon realizing what he just said… and what it could possibly imply. “… I mean, who cares about that anyway. Your turn. Tell me about your mother.”

“A dancer,” her expression turned gloomy for a second. “With green hair like mine. I recall how warm and radiant her smile was when she lulled me to sleep. At least… before she left me at the orphanage.”

“In other words, like you. Glad to know I am not the only obvious person here as well,” he smirked.

“Someday I’ll wipe that smirk off your face,” she sighed, “you should be glad it’s less ugly than pants.”

“And with what?” he commented in a deadpan tone. “… Why are you blushing again?”

“Who is?”

“… You are?”

“Prove it,” she challenged. “Look at me and smirk again.”

“Eye-staring contest?” he bent to match her height. “How curious. Very well. One, two…”

“… You blinked, Ares,” she giggled, her index finger unreservedly pointing at his face.

“Did I?”

“Yes!” she kept chuckling. “Aww, you are so weak.”

“I am not,” he shook his head, “it is because you cheated.”

“No? I won fairly,” she argued. “Don’t say that just because you lost!”

“You smiled,” he shook his head again with a disapproving manner.

“I smiled, and you lost control?” Lene raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a dirty tactic!”

“I had no ulterior motive! Besides, why did you falter just because I smiled?”

“Good question. I wish I knew,” he sighed as if he was exhausted. “… Ah, this is dangerous. I can’t fight well if this happened at the battlefield.”

“Oh, Ares,” she giggled again. “Did your opponents smile at you when they were about to fight you?”

“Sometimes they told me they would love to feast on my blood, crack open my skull, grind my bones to dust, tear my limbs one by one, have me tortured until I call out my mother’s name with tears on my face. Typical…” he stopped talking when she looked visibly disturbed. He did _that_ again, huh.

“That is different! Goodness, I did not smile because I imagined those horrible things.”

“I suppose. Because what they said did not change anything. I did not even care…” he peeked at her, “now you are smiling again.”

“So! I take that you did that on purpose,” she placed her hands on her hips. “Cheeky Ares!”

“There is something my mother used to tell me when my father sent us away to safety,” he said slowly. His throat felt dry whenever he had to relish the memory, as if the Empire’s fire arrows which torched Leonster were besieging him. “… that a parent would not leave their children unless they were willing to give more than their all to bet a chance on the survival of that child. I used to think I was too young and only burdened my father so he sent me away. And I could not do much for my frail mother that she would always be more than willing to give up her meals for me, saying I have to live on, if not for the legacy of my father.”

She listened patiently. Those snippets were rarer than Ares’ crystal-clear mischievous streaks, and she valued the chances she had when he opened up to her like this. A burden… that one she could not picture. Now that he said these things, she was curious of his father. Perhaps if the older lion was still alive he could see how it was hardly the case now. People depended on him. His mercenary group depended on him to take down the most enemies he could bury with swift powerful cuts. And there were instances when he helped people around him, with or without the sword. “I am sure your parents never thought of you that way,” she squeezed his arm gently. “Rather than that, they believed in you.”

“Yes. Sounds great to be protected all the time even if everything around me got destroyed and everyone I knew perished,” he replied bitterly. “At least that is not the case now that I am an adult. … Now that I have lost them, anyway.”

“Well, I do not know your parents,” she commented softly, “but consider this—they were willing to give their all just so you live because… they wanted to bet on everything for you to see a better future. To know a better world than they did, and perhaps…” she took his hand this time, “shaping it yourself.”

“Then perhaps I should start by burying the wretched son of the man who buried my father,” he snickered, but did not reject her gesture. “And after that we will talk.”

Lene went silent again. As stubborn as he could be, Ares was actually willing to listen to anything she was about to say when they had to discuss something… except this one. Ares had said that supposedly, his late father was good friends with another lordly warrior, who then betrayed him by slaying him en route to invade his country. Now that part remained a dark territory that even she could not enter because she felt she did not have the right to. She was determined to find the traces of her mother, and she had many questions about her own father—was he alive? Was he dead? Why did they leave her at the orphanage? And more than that, what happened to her parents? What if her mother died… would she be able to bear it? What if she had to face the truth the way he did, that her mother had died because someone else ended her? Now that she began to learn fighting, would she follow his footprints by pursuing vengeance?

“What if it is the other way around?” she shifted her demeanor, back to the ever-cheerful and peppy Lene. “You should not start by burying him because that way then you could not talk… _to him._ ”

“… Ah,” he was tongue-tied. She never stated whether she approved or disapproved of his ultimate mission for revenge, but the conversations he had with her so far made him start reconsidering things. He still wanted to see Sigurd’s son, but now that she said these things, it would be hard to just dissuade the sudden urge of things he wanted to convey to his archnemesis.

 _Why?_ He pictured himself clashing blades with the other guy. When he overheard that rumors had the prince—he would always, always snort cynically when people said it—started to gather the masses bringing a message of unity, he was glad. When the dancer, out of good faith, asked if he was glad because it sounded like a message of peace, he simply said because it meant the prince was a warrior, and that way he could have a fair all-out fight until their blades were red with blood. Lene’s expression turned sad when he conveyed his answer, but he would be lying if it was not what he wanted.

“Now you are silent,” she teased him again. “Nice shirt~!”

“Get my clothes back as soon as they dry and I’ll spare you,” he mustered a death glare. “… And back to the topic, I did not mean to make this about me. What I wanted to tell you is that I don’t think your mother hated you so she left you at an orphanage. Like my parents, she just… wanted you to live.”

 “The market is sure crowded today, huh…” Lene tilted her head because… there was a fog in her eyes when he just confidently said that. _How ironic,_ she thought. He seemed to be the one who needed convincing that his parents did not actually thought of him as a burden, neither would his mother ever blame him for being so small and powerless to stop what unfolded. However it felt like a relief to hear that from him, and she could only pray that it was the case; that it was true.

“… But this morning feels relaxing somehow. … Strange.”

“You are so cute!!” suddenly she cooed on him, taking his cheeks with her hands and squeezed them, to his much-visible horrified, horrified look. “You are like a cub. If you purr, that will be perfect! You can look so brooding and scary from a distance but who would have thought the Black Knight is this sweet?”

“… Purr…?”

She laughed again because of how horrified he sounded. His eyes widened, his expression cringed and his eyebrows knitted as if he was facing something he really, really dreaded for. “Either you are scared, or you are just that constipated,” she giggled again, running her hand insolently over his cheek.

“The former,” he grumbled.

“Hahaha, how come you fear me this much?” Lene teased again.

“I wish I knew,” Ares did not have much choice but letting her index finger twirling on his nose. “… Say, Lene, be honest with me. Do you practice black magic?”

“No?” she stopped playfully messing with him at an instant. “… Did you just ask me that?”

“Yes?” he replied, being perplexed even more because his honest tone only fueled her laughter.

“Nice shirt,” she did that again, making him grimace. When he arrived at the market that morning, he was aware that all eyes were already on him. At first he did not pay attention at all because it was a common occurrence, especially now with curious people who thought they were entitled to his personal matters because of his morning market strolls with her.

But when he crouched to inspect vegetables—something he started doing lately thanks to her delicious soups if not Javarro’s own initiative to budget for winter, the way the seller greeted him was a bit different, at least until he stood up again to bring his purchases to be paid at the counter.

“Oh gosh, so it was you, the Black Knight!” she would say.

“I am?” he stared, dumbfounded.

“U-umm… n-no offense, Sir Black Knight…”

“No offense taken,” he responded in haste, knowing well people easily felt intimidated by him no matter what.

“A-ah. It’s just. You look rather different today, so I d-did not recognize you sooner,” the shopkeeper reasoned, nervously packing the potatoes and turnips he purchased. “I h-hope you are not angry.”

“I am not,” he took the bagged vegetables, loading them into the sack. He made an inquiring look when Lene approached him, smiling with her own purchases in her basket. Only then he realized the color black had become his trademark, so much that his presence when not wearing it surprised people.

“I see…” she replied thoughtfully when he conveyed this to her. “For a moment I was afraid it was because the shirt was too ugly!”

He glanced at his body, clad in the shirt she sewed for him. The fabric was a beautiful ivory-colored one with some wooden brown floral motif she had sewed in a way that it became a collar decoration instead. “This is comfortable,” he admitted, responding in a rather tender tone, thinking how much effort she had put in one night just to nurse him, and was still being considerate in the process. Of course the color was too light, too soft for his taste, and his lips nearly quirked into a smile thinking her fondness of floral-anything was even visible in the fabrics which she supposedly used as a rancher’s mantle cape. But just as she said she had put a layer under it so it was comfortable to wear, and the simple design actually helped toning down the ‘cute factor’ as if she pictured his person when making it.

And with a simple honesty like that, her face lighted up again. “Then I’m so glad it worked! You will need something warmer if you still insist not using a blanket, so I hope this one will do for the time being.”

“Perhaps it’s time to invest that hard-earned money on… clothes,” he responded. His tone was back to being rather sour again, once again prompting her to giggle.

“Come on, buying clothes is not that stressful! I’ve got an idea, want me to accompany you?”

“Then I’m stressed.”

“Meanie...”

_MEOW._

“... Meow?” she repeated.

“I did not…” Ares’ pupils dilated when she said that at his face, with a straight expression.

“Are you sure?” she chuckled, catching a strand of his mullet and twirled it in her grasp. “Interesting you quickly stated that when I did not even ask you anything...”

“Yet,” he finished her sentence. “But of course,” he  emphasized on both words, bewildered this time. ... She really did not actually compare him to cats, did she? He had heard people comparing to him a ferocious lion, perhaps because of his shoulder-length blond hair and the tales of his prowess in battles. He was ambivalent about it. First he felt Eldigan’s legacy of being a lion-hearted warrior kept living in him. But at the same time he felt he had done nothing but betraying the Lionheart’s legacy exactly because he swung the inherited demon sword in battles people paid him to partake. His mother often dubbed him as a cub for being a son and heir of Nordion, but to him and his family, the image of a cub was far from a cute, docile animal—it was a predator in the making, a warrior in training.

… And so far, there was only one person who dared to call him a cat. Her.

_… MEOW…_

“Did you hear that?” Lene craned her neck to scan her surroundings. Ares’ eyes only got to widen even more when she squealed, bending to look down to the ground and touched her dress.

“Did someone… hide there?” he, still dumbfounded, reflexively reached for his sword.

“Nooo, Ares~! And keep that sword, it’s dangerous!” Lene giggled back and forth, and Ares was still unsure of everything although he obediently cast aside his sword. His eyes were locked on her, wary yet waiting in anticipation.

His curiosity was short-lived when she picked up something from the ground. “Look!” she said, holding it with care like it was some sort of fragile treasure one would really love to treat with gentleness.

“A… cat?” he responded. Right—a cat. Or rather, a black kitten was now safely held in her hands, and her happy expression lighted even more when he awkwardly nodded deeper to examine it. “So… an actual cat,” he replied as if he was making a war report. His index finger moved just like that, and…

“Meow!”

“It… chews on me,” Ares spoke in shock. The kitten nibbled into his finger, and he was still too amazed to do anything else but letting it have its way like that.

“It is hungry,” Lene thought a bit. “Let’s see… I think I brought a few fishes with me today.”

“So that’s why it tailed you, huh?” Ares took a piece of fish Lene just showed him from her basket. They stepped aside from the crowded street, retreating to an alley to feed the kitten. It munched greedily on a piece Ares broke off for it. Ares kept watching, still with an amazed look on his face.

“Here you go again, kitty,” Lene chuckled, tearing another piece. But the kitten only stood where it was.

“Hey, why don’t you eat?” Ares softly nudged the kitten. “… Such… small nose…”

Lene smirked triumphantly at him. “It’s just like you.”

“No,” he countered. “It is already decided that I am a lion.”

“But both are identical species!” Lene laughed again. “Hungry, but waiting until the world feels like crumbling to even express you are hungry? And putting up a dignified look when I made you meals?”

“I’m not a cat,” Ares replied, his tone was sour, yet he looked at the kitten and himself back and forth.

“You are,” she chuckled again. “You are a big fluffy cat,” with another hand which she did not use to touch the fish, she ruffled his mane enthusiastically, “… with a ferocious death glare!”

“See, that is why we are not alike,” Ares seized an opening to argue.

“Someone has a favorite color he is obsessed with,” she shook her head.

“I’m not _that_ obsessed. The color black is as practical as navy blue because it is one of the best you can wear at night when you want to make your presence unknown. It is also a way to create a silhouette which distorts the opponent’s vision of you, and…” he countered again, and eventually yielded realizing the more vehement his defense was, the more she had the reason to feel triumphant… again.

“I guess I can leave this fish for the kitten to eat…” Lene thought again, “and let’s get back with some milk or water after we are done visiting the shops!”

“What if it is no longer here when we return?” Ares asked out of honest curiosity.

“Heheheee. Neither the cub nor the kitten forgets who gave them food,” Lene ticked Ares in the nose.

“You sound so sure,” he shook his head, clasping his chin exactly because he felt like smiling.

“I’m experienced!” her chuckles only turned to be merrier when she sensed Ares’ death stare on her since she took turn looking at him and the kitten. “Bye for now, Ares Junior!”

“What… did you just call it?” Ares’ eyes widened again.

“Ares Junior?” she giggled, “or would you rather have a Little Ares instead?”

“No.”

“Hnnn~? But it’s only fair!”

“There can be only one Ares.”

“What kind of zeal is that? What if there is another person called Ares around here?”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

“… You will what now?”

“The kitten will just be kitty. My name is mine alone,” he still tried glaring, but now he suspected her smiles and laughter had the secret weapon triangle effect he only uncovered too late.

“But the kitten will be Little Ares and you get to be Big Ares. The original Ares.”

“Then why don’t you call it Lene?” Ares promised himself this would be his last try of shooting death glare at her for today, fully aware that she vanquished everything without even trying.

“Oh, Ares, you cute cub. If I name it after me, don’t you think it will be rather odd to call my own name like that?” she giggled again.

“… Then it is decided. I’ll call it Lene. When it is with you… I don’t know, may the gods have mercy.”

“Stubborn!” Lene yelled at Ares.

“As if you are not!” he replied with raised eyebrows.

“I don’t mean malice!”

“I did not accuse you of being malicious!”

“Well, if my place is not that cramped I’ll take it in so that I can call it Ares every time just to spite you!”

“And for me to hear that, I will have to live with you,” he countered. “You lose, Miss.”

 _Lose?_ Oh boy now she _glared_. “Oh really?! Come live with me so I can spite you with ease and style.”

“… Stubborn,” he sighed.

“And you are the one to say that?” she exhaled sharply.

“Stubborn…”

“H-hey, Ares?”

“Stubborn,” with his death glares gone, what was left only his roaring… _laughter._ He threw his head back and forth, laughing whole-heartedly, to her dismayed, confused look. “Alright, Lene. Let’s find some milk or water or whatever for this little one. I shall return, Little Lene.”

“Hnnn!”

“… Dare I ask why you whacked my head again, let alone with a turnip?”

“How do I know you are speaking to the kitten and not to me, you height bandit?!”

“Good question. There is no difference.”

“Ares!”

“Yes, come on, Lene, fight me,” he smirked, “and to do so, you have no choice but following me around, frustratingly beseeching a turnip’s help to bludgeon me. So later, Little Lene…”

“… Ares, I swear—“  Lene followed him, tailing behind his long quiet strands his tall posture afforded. She glanced at the kitten, which looked at them with a… what? Lene wanted to facepalm, but at the same time she felt like chuckling again because the kitten had a similar anticipating look like Ares innocently would do when he was genuinely curious of something. Lene parted ways with Ares, heading to the nearest fishmonger she could find while ordering a bowl of milk from the nearest breakfast bread counter she could get to.

“Lene?” she heard Ares calling for her. The Black Knight was eyeing for a batch of deer meat where he stood. She had heard some people ate deer meat especially during winter or the coldest autumn nights because the textures made it more filling, with the other reason simply because it felt better than eating horse meat when it came to filling, sturdier, rougher meat.

“I’ll be back soon, Golden Kitty!” she waved at him with a big grin on her face before disappearing like lightning to inquire about the milk and fishes she was looking for.

“… What did you call me?”

“Kitty?”

“Start praying then,” he glared at her, but she merely chuckled while the people around them held their breaths.

“Can I help you? Ah, Sir Black Knight of course,” the butcher smiled knowingly because he understood the Black Knight’s shopping habit.

“I just…” Ares looked around, trying to locate Lene. Suddenly he felt rather awkward, shopping food for another person… _alright, not even a person,_ he thought, recalling Lene’s nickname for the kitten. Usually it was she who was much better at handling things like this, and he recalled how perceptive she was. And considering her affinity with… cute things… now Ares’ lips pursed into a begrudging smile before he could even prevent it.

“Yes? Or perhaps you want prime cuts for today?” the butcher responded cheerily. Both Javarro and Ares had been his loyal customers, and he earned his first instant chit-chat with the mercenary chief for mistaking them to be related.

“… Do kittens eat deer meat?”

“Huh?”

“Eh—never mind. I will be back later with my friend,” he spared a quick bow, retreating to the direction where he first came. “Hey, Lene…” now he began to wonder if Lene was truly annoyed by his teasing. Oh she teased him A LOT, alright—but everything she said never came out malicious despite his mustered curt responses. It tended to be how he would be cute and all that—and as he would fold his arms with a sharp “What?” she hardly ever said something negative about… his physical traits. True that she sometimes commented about his height, but judging from the way her eyes spoke as her teasing barraged him, he would not even call that bullying.

_… Bullying?_

Ares’ lips pursed once again. If the dancer was determined to bully him, she needed to work harder.

“Thank you!!”

Ares’ eyes were wide open upon hearing the cheery exclamation. He recognized Lene’s voice at an instant, including her spirited way of speaking. And just like he suspected, it truly was her, rushing to the alley with a bowl in her hand, looking like she was running on her toes with those vivacious steps.

“Kitty?” she called. “Little Ares?” her voice only grew even more enthusiastic as she approached the alley. Lene strolled into the alley. She bobbed her head, scanning her surroundings and looked down to find the kitten. But it was not there even after she called it one more time. Lene paused where she stood, the bowl containing milk was still in her hand. She leaned against a cool cemented well in the alley, her shoulders slumping in disappointment.

Ares was right again, and she hated it. But why did a runaway kitty make her feel sad? She did not even have to feed it, considering this was a back alley at the market which might spare daily abundant munchables for the kitten. And she did feed the cat, so, supposedly her job there was done.

Lene exited the alley, her eyes nearly bumped into Ares’ upper shoulders. “There you are,” the warrior said. His eyebrows dove when he caught her foggy eyes. “What happened?”

“The kitten,” she cried desperately. “It is gone!”

Ares was taken aback for a second. Lene looked really disappointed, and she even spoke in high-pitched voice like she was so close to feeling frustrated. The dancer was truly sad. “It will not leave the places it normally strolls to.”

“Hnnn,” she gave a small nod. His voice was so comforting... “But how do we know these places?”

“If it can be here, then it has to be around here,” he patted her shoulder. “Let’s go. If we return here anytime, let’s check again. After all, I can’t forget what I’m being compared to.”

“You are so patient,” she murmured.

“Patient? Me?” he smirked. “The cat has to decide whether it wants to be called after me or you.”

“So, you _actually_ do not hate the name at all!”

“I’ve got a battle I need to win,” he rolled his eyes at her.

Her tensed expression began to relax slowly. Ares was still Ares, who spoke in that kind of non-malicious but cold-ish demeanor. But there was something reliable exactly because of that, and that trait of his actually made her feel relieved.

_MEOW…_

“Ares, that’s…” she stopped, nudging him.

“Yes, I heard,” Ares concurred. “So where…?”

“Little Ares!”

“Little Lene?”

Both Ares and Lene paused, eyeing each other. She looked at him, a twinkle in her eyes as her fingers formed an L shape pointed at him, while he acted displeased and purposefully stood super straight to tower over her. “Kitty!!” they shouted again in unison.

_MEOW!_

Lene stormed deeper into the alley, nearly spilling the milk in the bowl she was holding. Her instinct told her she would find the source of the sounds there, and Ares followed suit. Sometimes he wanted to sit her down for some serious talk because she easily sprung into action whenever her mind was set on it without regars of her safety, but... then he realized it could easily backfire because he knew once he rode with an unsheathed Mystletainn, he would not stop until victory was in his hands.

Lene raced to the sound. The kitten was there, cornered by about three angry people. “It has to be this one, I’m sure of it!” she heard one of them shouting. “Damn this animal! ... It scratched me!”

“What a thief. It ruined my counter as well... go to hell!”

“No, stop!” not able to withstand what she witnessed, the dancer rushed forward. Lene did not think twice when she leaped to get the kitty—she threw her body on the ground, enveloping the kitten in a protective hug as her back faced the people, shielding the kitten from everyone else’s anger.

“Hey, lady, cut it out! It’s just a cat!”

“It’s just a cat, you said?! And what will be next, just a child, just a person?” she turned her head, challenging them one by one with defiant, courageous eyes. “That’s how it all starts, you know?!”

“So! That is your kitten, innit?” an angry person bellowed at her, twirling a rolling pin.

“No? Do I need a reason to stop you savages from brutalizing an animal?!” she got up, the kitten was still enveloped in her arms, gently pressed to her chest like a mother who protected her newborn. “It was hungry. Even if it caused a catastrophe, no need to go out of your way like this, don’t you think?!”

“Enough for this pep-talk, lady, if you are not the owner then step aside!”

“... Three grown men ganging up against an unarmed, non-combatant woman and a little animal? What a joke. Are you guys trying to make me vomit in my mouth?” a voice came from the mouth of the alley, followed by  steady footsteps which approached closer.

“Ares,” Lene breathed a sigh of relief.

“A small animal, unworthy enough to let live, yet mighty enough to cause a catastrophe. Which one is it then?” Ares shrugged dismissively, but his eyes flashed as if marking each angry person, storing their faces in his memory. “If by catastrophe you mean a few of tumbling plant pots I believe this kitten still has a better manner than the Empire’s rich officials who strolled here sometimes.”

Lene burst out of the cornering crowd, making a beeline to reunite with Ares. The kitten was still there, held against her chest. “Let’s just get out of here,” she whispered to Ares. “I’ve got the milk anyway.”

“If you say so,” the warrior merely nodded, obediently turning back.

“Oi, wait. You’re going to walk away just like that?” the rolling pin person was about to grab Lene’s shoulder, when something else stopped him.

Lene tilted her head out of reflex, feeling someone else’s movement from behind her back. Her eyes widened when Ares casually weaved the rolling pin man into a handshake. She was not the only surprised person there because even the rolling pin man was too speechless to react when Ares got all smiley-friendly with him.

“Oh, sorry. My reflex,” the warrior spoke in a cooing manner. “You see, I was not the nicest kid growing up, so my mentor had to push me at people to teach me handshakes. Now it’s become a habit.”

“H-huh?”

“Please forgive this kitten,” Ares spoke again, bobbing his weaved hand back and forth. “If it truly caused you a fortune, then show me what it ruined so I can think of a fair compensation.”

“Err—“

“But if you guys are just looking for an excuse to beat up another, then I can fill the role for that as well. Fair warning though, I hit back. I hope it is more entertaining than threatening someone who can’t,” this time his gaze casually lingered on Lene, who immediately retreated behind his back once she understood what was supposed to unfold.

“… O-of course. I mean, sure. Have it your way. Like you said, i-it’s just a cat.”

“Thank you very much. This town is nicer than I thought!” Ares ended his handshake, his hand was now reigning on the small of Lene’s back to usher her out of the alley with him walking alongside her.

“That one just now…” the rolling pin man muttered when the two of them were already out of the alley. The hand Ares just enveloped into a handshake twitched, making him wince. “… Who… is he? Is he even human? Such strength…”

“H-hold on,” one of them commented, his voice broke in his throat. “Tall, blond-haired with golden copper-colored eyes carrying a menacing curious black sword? I-is that not… the Black Knight??”

“... Seriously?!”

“We are lucky,” the one who commented sighed. “We are so damn fucking lucky.”

* * *

 

For the hundredth time today, she could not resist smiling. They were sitting in a bench, somewhere not far from the market, close to the flower aisles. The Black Knight’s eyes were fixed on the kitten, which was now sipping the milk out of the bowl she procured.

“Hmmm...”

When he made the innocent curious tone again for the hundredth time in regards to the kitten, she finally could not hold it any longer. “Ares, you’ve been poking it for... I lost count. Let it drink!”

“How can this kitty be so small?” Ares inquired, his eyes narrowed as he put his elbow on the bench, bending as like just so he could examine the animal closer.

“It will grow,” she responded patiently, answering all his innocent curious questions one by one just the way she gently took the words he mustered during his feverish state, one by one without scoffing.

“Hmmm,” he made the sound again, running his fingers over its fur. “So soft? How come?”

“Just like you, isn’t it?” she could not help but commenting.

“You are joking again,” he gave her a sour look, but she merely grinned.

“Oh, look,” Lene cooed. “Ares, it approaches you!”

“Hmmm. What do I do then?” Ares watched attentively as the small animal came closer.

“Nothing. Just wait and watch!” Lene laughed, rubbing the kitten’s small cheeks with her fingers. “Aww, it purrs! Oh gosh, how cute is that?”

“So, purring... is cute, huh...?”

“Hnnn~? You want that as well?” she stretched her fingers, ready to invade his face again.

“No, thank you very much.”

“You are thinking of things.”

“I do think of many things.”

“You backpedal.”

“I ride a horse.”

“Nice shirt.”

“Again,” he muttered. “Hey...”

Both the warrior and the dancer could only stare when the kitten voiced a small _meow..._ before conveniently lingered even closer to where Ares sat. In a split second, it leaped on him, proudly claiming a small area of his thigh as it rested its tiny furry body against the side of his leg.

“... Oh my,” Lene gasped.

“... Does this mean I am conquered now?” Ares was flummoxed. He gently scooped the animal with his palm, but the kitten only purred even more when he cradled it.

“Yes. You are the father now. Congratulations!” Lene giggled. “Gods, I’m a bit jealous. I found it first and it begged me for food, yet look at it now, cheekily warming up to you!”

Ares looked at her. “I suppose...”

“Hmmm?” she asked mindlessly, watching people come and go around them. In a merciless, unforgiving world... would this tiny kitten survive? Where should they go from here? Where should they leave it? Perhaps the kitten could sleep on her sofa. Or a box inside her warm, comfortable bedroom. And she would need to potty-train it. ... But she danced. Could she afford to do that all? She would feel so guilty for rescuing an animal off the street only to neglect it after...

“I’ll take it with me.”

“Oh,” she replied. “... Hold on. Eeeeh?”

“But of course. You said we are alike? Now I have to observe this kitten to see if that is even true at all,” he replied with a straight face. “Then you will eat your words.”

“If it lives with you, it will only even more become identical with you,” she smiled, “so eat your words, Ares.”

“You are not so happy.”

“Well...” Lene shook her head, “but it likes you more than me! That is more important, you know?”

“... Why be jealous of a cat?”

“W-what?”

“Right? You begrudge me because this cat likes me more,” he smirked. “Hmmm! Interesting, so it did not even actually ask when it was hungry, but it was actually there when we got back. And it did not even cower when cornered? ... It seems...”

“It seems it is indeed your child,” Lene laughed again, more boisterous this time. “The color black? Check. Hesitant with others? Check. But honest with everything else? Also check! And fighting back no matter the number or situation? See, it is decided then. Little Ares, may Big Ares be kind to you!”

“... No.”

“Hnnn~?”

“Like you said, it will be rather odd to call your own name like that, right?” Ares grinned at her as he slowly tucked the animal behind his shirt. The kitten purred comfortably, its head leaning against the base of his neck, and Ares held it like he was determined to protect it from the world. “I’ll keep it in my stable. My horse can use some company,” he continued, gently rubbing on the kitten again and looking amazed when the animal enjoyed the gesture. “And my group buys a lot of meat. This kitten is mine.”

“Ares, you don’t have to say that like you are marking something...” she giggled. Despite all the laughter and everything she actually understood Ares was genuinely fascinated by the animal—if not by his own hesitation to actually admit the kitten had grown on him too.

“But I am. Now the Black Knight does not only wear black and ride a black horse, he also takes care of a black kitten!” he stated. "And now that this cat chose to lean on me instead of you, I guess... it means it is not going to be imprisoned by loyalty."

"... Imprisoned by loyalty?"

"Right? It stayed because it wanted to be there at the alley. Then it decided to accept what we gave. It approached you. It approached me. This cat is independent, not bowing to any master," somehow he spoke like he was picturing something else, "... and the fur is black too."

“Someone sure does have a color he is obsessed with,” Lene sighed. “What?” she stuck a tongue at him when he made that eye stare which she caught as a protesting signal.

“Then it is decided. I will be naming it... Eldie.”

“... Eldie?” she cocked an eyebrow.

“Eldie it is. Hey, since today forward you are Eldie. Got it?” Ares glanced at the kitten.

“It does not understand.”

“It will. I’m calling it Eldie. It will know.”

“Alright,” she smiled. “You saved it. ... No, you saved us. I guess it is fair that it is yours, Kitty Ares.”

“One more question, since you seem to be well-versed at everything that is cute,” he said in a deadpan manner, “... Can you teach a cat to fight like you do a dog? Deathly claws to match my death stares?”

“... Oh, Ares...”  Lene lost it. She giggled, giggled, chuckled... laughed and laughed until she cackled, throwing her head back and forth, her face was read with all the laughter she mustered as tears started to come down her cheeks. “You are so cute indeed!” with no filter remained to rein her in, her hands flew straight to reach his cheeks, squeezing them, rubbing them like she would do to a baby or a cat.

“... I still won’t purr, you know?”

“Doesn’t matter for now,” she giggled again, squeezing his cheeks one more time before turning her attention to the little animal whose head peeked from the warrior’s collar. “I think it marks you instead.”

“I guess,” Ares’ expression softened at the black cat, “... with Eldie waiting on me with my horse, then perhaps... it will start to feel like home. ... What do you say... Eldie?”

“... Ares?”

“Ah, don’t mind me, I’m rambling,” he quickly assumed his taciturn demeanor.

“Admittedly, I don’t understand,” she responded. “But you sound so at peace! I have no complaints.”

“I will, if you keep my clothes hostage, though,” he wiped traces of sentimentality off his face, feeling rather foolish for a moment. The dancer truly had no idea, which he was secretly thanking the gods for. Perhaps if he would just say that name again, more and more it would feel smooth in his tongue, and no longer would the name give him the ashy feelings like cinders or whatever was left from his mother’s burning hometown. Or the grave soil that was a now-defunct royal house of Nordion...

“I _will_ deliver them to you! I told you, your clothes have no use for me,” she sighed again. “Adamant, aren’t you?! It’s not like our sizes are even close to begin with. And your shirt is...”

“Too big, eh?” he smirked again, a mischevous triumphant smile crowned his lips. “Finally, a confession.”

“Hnnn!! See, you are so mean! You did that on purpose!”

“Better late than never. I commend your honesty.”

“Yeah? Then commend this too now, height bandit—“

“... Lene, a turnip is not a weapon.”

“Anything can be such in times of dire!”

“... You are actually right. Lend me your turnip.”

“... Huh?”

“I want to test its sturdiness. ... Ah,  can it be possible? Yes, yes, a demon sword must be quite a spectacle, but a turnip truly is unsuspecting. Have you ever made baked stuffed-something with it?”

“Eh? No, I don’t think you can use turnips like that...”

“Too bad. If it was that versatile then a big one could conceal a dagger. ... Why are you glaring at me?”

“I’m enjoying this,” she grinned.

“Be careful. You will wake up Eldie.”

“What a pure joy then, papa cat has a kitten.”

“... Papa... Cat?” Ares stopped, stupefied, only to be met with Lene’s even-warmer smile.

“Then I’ll be off, Kitty Ares,” she laughed along, dragging her basket from the bench. “I’ll spare some milk for Eldie when I return your clothes. But with three black-obsessed warriors in one place, how do I tell which one is which since the three of you are so alike?”

“Can a mother not tell her child apart?”

“Eh?” she thought she heard something, but his eyes dropped to the kitten again, prompting her to reflexively tone down her voice because the kitten looked so peacefully asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About two-three months ago or so, I saw a fanart picturing Ares with a black cat. I either have the memory of a goldfish or that 'things from 15 years ago which haunt you back until you become insomniac' kind of habit, so I can only vaguely remember where I saw it (I am sure it was either Tumblr or Pixiv though). Then someone I followed on Tumblr got a fandom ask which basically became a 'what if, Ares and a cat'. When I checked my emails about a week ago, I saw the person under 'GeneratedUsername' commenting about Ares behaving like a cat. So that day I was like... that's it lol I have to try doing this.
> 
> Anyway, I thank you for all the comments (and kudos of course). Sorry if I did not write back much, the truth is... I'm actually rather shy u_u happy November. May the month bring you nothing but kindness.


	17. Horror

The sun barely tilted when she arrived at the mercenary compound that day. When she approached the wooden gates to knock, she could hear sounds of people chattering and being merry with each other. Door guards could only blink when they dismissively asked if the guest required a service, and she simply nodded with an unfaltering confidence. “Yes! I am looking for Ares.” When the door guards exchanged glances with a cringed expression, she asked again, unfazed. “Is he here or not?”

“We don’t know,” they said off-handedly.

“Then I’ll look inside if it is alright with you two,” she shrugged, casually going in.

The guards snickered. “Hey, Black Knight. Your bitch is here.”

“My what?”

Lene turned around. There he was—Ares. He did not have his cape on, and his hands were not wrapped in the typical black gloves he wore. When he saw her, he simply nodded, buttoning his shirt which slightly exposed his bare chest before and fixing his sleeves while he was at it. Ares seemed to be in the middle of working on something, and only _then_ the dancer felt rather guilty for showing up. “Hi,” she waved her hand at him. With a humorous gesture she held up a cloth bag with another hand, and her smile grew as she paid attention to his body language—from his response to his comrade, conveyed in a low voice as if warning the insolent mercenary, to the innocent curious expression he darted on her cloth bag.

“Your _guest_ is here, darn it,” the insolent mercenary rectified himself when Ares’ gaze landed on him.

“Such a guest on a busy day.”

The voice was too familiar to be startling—yet it was, and even Ares was affected enough that he hastily turned around with a surprised expression on his face. “Chief,” he bowed slightly.

Lene was still silent when Javarro’s cynical smile blossomed. Javarro saw what she handed Ares—clothes.  Right, his clothes he had left because they still did not dry when the morning came. “Some other night was so unusually hot that you forgot your shit?” Javarro sneered when Ares accepted what she bundled.

“You _do_ ride well as the Chief said,” the door guard remarked, feeling an opening to get even now that Javarro was there. “Is that so, Miss?”

“Maybe,” Lene replied in a sultry manner, not missing the insolent mercenary’s emphasis on the honorific. “Does it matter since you will never know?” Ares had to cough so hard just so he could maintain a straight face—and acted like he still had some of the seasonal cold in him.

“You killed more ferociously than Mystletainn,” he commented with a snort as they headed to his stable. “But perhaps you should have told them I was just sleeping for the night at your place.”

Yet she simply shook her head. “They will know you are sick. You don’t seem to delight in the idea.”

He made a noise of what sounded like sighing with a growl. “You are still shielding me either way.”

“And vice-versa, you are not?” she smiled, forcing Ares to concede in silence. Lene was tempted to push further by teasing Ares because he sounded almost horrified. Did Ares dread the idea of being helped that much? If he did not really have image problem there, then why the horror?

Ares knew he should be aware that once she smiled like that it only meant she was victorious and she knew it. Ares clicked his tongue, feeling thrown in between. The dancer was formidable, and her fierceness was one of the aspects he respected—if not admired—about her.  Her comebacks could cut sharper than a sword, and sometimes he felt like he had to smash a chair over people’s heads because even then they still could not understand a rebuttal, or questioned when they got served while casually dismissing that they were the ones who drove the dancer to snap. “Now the Chief is imagining things.”

“Alright, I’ll tell Javarro you were as sick as a kitten two days ago…”

“Don’t.”

“Here we go again since you are being like _that_ again,” she pointed at him. “Is it so dreadful to be honest saying you hated that he knew you spent time with me? I know you did not like it very much either.”

He stopped. This time his gaze was firm as if he was about to semi-bark a treat. “I don’t mean that,” his reply came out rather fervently. “What I don’t like is that he had unpleasant thoughts regarding you.”

“Gods. Him too?” Lene folded her arms, demanding an explanation. Some days when she had a good time chatting up Ares the mercenary chief appeared like if he could choose to not notice her, he would. And he would be having this stern—if not something akin to relish a nightmare—expression on his face, making curt small talk with her just to convey that he acknowledged her being at the compound. Perverted old men were not a new phenomenon for her to encounter, but considering how the mercenary chief looked like he could not even be bothered to care about her, she was not sure if Javarro would be one of these so-called admirers. Or maybe, because some people were… odd.

“Not in _that_ way. Gods be damned,” Ares did not even try concealing he was truly horrified by the idea. 

“Then what is the problem?” the dancer merely shrugged. “Really, Ares… sometimes your group needs to know things like this. Because… maybe this is the only way for them to realize that you are still a human being just like they are, and not immune to pain.”

“For starters, I do not accept another person comparing me to a cat,” he responded curtly.

“Hmmm? So I have the privilege~?” she chuckled, ticking him in the nose.

“… Now you are teasing me,” he replied with a low tone and slumping head. “I can revoke it, though.”

“So that means, I have,” she ticked his nose again. “Where is baby Eldie?”

“Right here,” he said without thinking. It took him a few more seconds to realize she was referring to the kitten and not himself because… “… It does start to feel like home.”

Everyone was surprised when he brought back a black kitten, but they were in for greater surprises. First he made it clear that he would take offense to anyone who bullied his cat. While he did not think that the rest of his group would step so low by treating a kitten cruelly, he felt like he could only feel better when he made the threatening remark. Javarro frowned deeper than everyone else did in the group, but Ares simply mentioned to him that as a mercenary chief he had picked a little boy—a street rat, he said, in regards to himself—off the streets, and based on the parallel he was saying he simply did what everyone else did, which was picking off something from the field. Javarro merely shrugged as always because he did not care much what Ares had put in his stable… or bedroom, if it came to that.

“Anyone laying a finger on Eldie will be my opponent,” Ares stated firmly, eyeing his comrades one by one. His hand reflexively touched the Mystletainn, “and apology will do naught at that moment.” People began to murmur because of how serious the Black Knight was about the kitten, while the person of interest himself was imagining something else. A fleeting world… in another universe where he would simply glare at people as his father, who was getting old, resting peacefully on a comfortable chair with the demon sword, chuckled at the cub’s filial piety.

When the kitten meowed and leaped to chase a bug, somehow Javarro felt amused. He said a thing or two about keeping the stables insect-free, and hoping Eldie would hunt for mice when it grew up. Neither Ares nor Javarro saw their expectation fulfilled, however, because the kitten followed the Black Knight around for the rest of the evening, and finally triumphantly laid a claim on his bed as well while Ares tossed aside, feeling so amazed at the little furry animal which purred beside him.

While at first it felt odd to have a kitten waiting him to be back home or to visit the stable as how he originally housed Eldie, at the same time he cherished the feeling in silence. At first it might come off rather awkward to plan on a cat’s meal for around two meal times because he had a mission. But when he returned, tired from riding and having to cleanse blood or whatever stains his battlefield had left on him, knowing there was an Eldie eagerly waiting on him brought him a simple delight he thought he could no longer feel. At first he questioned his decision about the name, but on the fifth time he used it to call on the kitten, an ‘Eldie’ started to feel smoother in his tongue, and having the kitten approached him when he called was somehow comforting.

… At least there was an Eldie who came when he called… or so he thought.

“Then let’s see your stable! Come on, come on~!” she enthusiastically tugged on him.

Ares simply followed her footsteps. “Eldie slept with me last night,” he said bluntly.

“How cute!” she beamed at him in the similar manner that was conveying the pure joy she experienced when the kitten began conquering them. “Eldie must like you a lot.”

“No, Eldie wanted a war,” Ares shook his head again. “Explain to me this, Lene. How can a small animal demand so much? Eldie practically occupied three-quarter of my bed. Diagonally!”

“Awh, poor Ares. Welcome to the world of felines,” she giggled, imagining Ares’ stupefied reaction upon finding an insolent small animal unhesitatingly rested its body on his bed, spraying around in the manner he described that even the supposed occupier of the bed could not properly lie on it. If that happened, then… the Black Knight ought to be unaware that despite his complaints, the fact was that he let a kitten take over his bed in the way it liked while he retreated to occupy whatever space that was left… letting a small animal enjoyed its conquest without being removed.

“And then Eldie poked me from behind as I turned around so I did not accidentally elbow him…” he went on, “but no way I yielded. I did not concede to this little asshole. I took his space! Rolled around so he was the one facing the wall while I casually lingered to the part of the bed he occupied.”

“… Ares…”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Did you… did you realize you just enacted a revenge on a cat?” she laughed so hard until her face was red and her cheeks hurt. “I don’t think Eldie stopped after you tried to counterattack.”

“Exactly. Eldie was on my chest. Shoved his butthole at my face as he wagged his tail against my nose.”

“Congratulations. You have a twin,” she smirked again. “So what do we have here so far? A warhorse with a beautiful mane, a sneaky cat who knows no retreat? And both are in black color? The Black Knight League! I will have a hard time differentiating all of you.”

“No way. It will change tonight. There is more than just one single battle tactic to outflank an enemy,” he said it in a deadpan tone and a straight face. “Until I defeat this little warrior, he will sleep with me.”

“… Honestly, that method will not… ah, never mind,” Lene resisted the urge to laugh again. Imagining Ares facing off with his own cat and actually simulating a battle formation just to be able to have the space on his own bed was itself hilarious, but the way he said that was even more priceless. “Seriously, Ares, the more you are trying to out-Eldie Eldie, the more he will be able to out-Ares you!”

“We are different. I am me, and Eldie is Eldie,” he pointed out to her. “And what do you carry there?”

“Grilled sausages for Eldie?” she smirked again, “and some milk in the pouch too.”

“The sausages smell good,” he admitted. “… Lene? Why are you laughing again?”

She noticed his face turning red for falling into the trap. They were just about to feed Eldie when Javarro cleared his throat behind them. The chief casually strolled into the stable, prompting awkwardness as well as a more deferring body language from the feared Black Knight. “Having fun?” his eyes narrowed, giving the impression that he had been analyzing them.

Lene never seriously told Ares what she actually thought about the Chief. While his work ethic seemed to be commendable compared to many other groups, sometimes the analyzing eye-stares were too much for her to bear. There would be that chilling feeling in her chest when he approached them while she was interacting with Ares. At first she thought Javarro was just protective of Ares the way a father was, considering both trod a dangerous path to bring foods on their table, but…

Lene was not sure if it was the case. One thing she was, however, noticing how the light in Ares’ eyes died a little when they got interrupted, and she wondered if Ares himself was even aware of it. The previously playful manner Ares showed while he was with her—the chuckles, the striking non-malicious comments Ares would say to counter her teasing… they were gone, and those copper eyes were back to reflect sturdy unwavering mountains if not a pool of frozen lava. Gone would be the Ares who would talk freely with her, responding to everything she said from dancing tidbits to whatever instant topic she picked off from whatever coming into their view.

Everything would slowly change into a robotic manner, with topics not far from the brutality of the battlefield or what was expected of it. Javarro would slowly ask what Ares encountered at the battlefield, the kills he scored—borrowing Javarro’s language—what spoils their opponents dropped, mapping the enemy’s power and tactics as if making a war council talk into a casual conversation.

And then she understood. She would excuse herself, to the lingering gaze of Ares’, or the cheerful goodbyes from Javarro. Lene hardly even thought of stealing Ares from anyone—if that even could be phrased as such—but seeing how genuinely relaxed Ares was, or how humorous he could be during their private time together made her feel sad.

 _It is as if he is not allowed to have those things,_ she contemplated, _… or that he does not allow himself to._

“We are almost done here, Chief,” Lene answered on behalf of Ares, who was still sitting on the ground with one relaxed lifted leg with Eldie crawling onto his thigh. A piece of grilled sausage she made was still in his hand, as awkward as the person holding it.

Lene smiled at Javarro, intending to push back. She was not going to be subdued by the subtle supervising gesture the mercenary chief unleashed on her. It was not that she wanted to fight off Javarro or filling Ares’ head with the idea of a coup—after all, she knew first-hand what they were doing, she heard of his reputation and how he was very much needed at the battlefield. But with Ares intending not to be a slave to anything, with her own ardor of a free-spirited life, she thought…

“Really? Then you can probably chop some woods for us, Ares?” Javarro glanced at the Black Knight, who stayed still like a statue while his cat snuggled on him. “It’s close to winter now. Dying in a battle is a thing, but frozen to death at your own den is stupid.”

“Sure,” Ares mumbled, setting the sausage piece he held for the kitten.

“Well, better get going before the sky turns gray again,” this time Javarro glanced at Lene.

“Don’t worry~ I’ll help him~!” Lene let out her trademark charming dancer-laughter. When Javarro grimaced, she followed up. “Because… sure you’d rather have us getting cozy somewhere else, Chief?”

Javarro was pretty much gobsmacked when Lene winked at him. “… I suppose,” he growled, “I had these stables built for horses not some passionate rendezvous, lass. Get the fuck out of here, Ares.”

Ares looked outside again to ensure Javarro was no longer within earshot. “Why?” he asked then.

“Because you are feeding Eldie?” she winked again, chuckling. The kitten purred softly, climbing onto the Black Knight before eventually settling itself on top of his shoulder.  “And to tell you the truth, Uncle Barkeep was right the other day. It is getting colder, and I have not been able to gather woods for my fireplace because of my tight schedule! Now that winter is knocking on our door, my days are rather lenient. I’ll still dance on winter, though,” the dancer continued.

“I see,” he gave a simple reply.

“You don’t like what I just did.”

“Yes.”

“Hnnn~? I’m not pretty enough for you for it to happen that you’d rather the Chief knows you’re sick~?”

“... Huh? No? But. And. I. Lene—“

“I’m joking, joking! He seemed to be horrified and I’m a generous person, so let’s give him the horror,” she smirked. “... Why are you tongue-tied?”

“... That was a joke?” he looked relieved. “I—thought you did ask if I found you ugly.”

“And what if I did~?” she kept pushing, chuckling again this time. When he went silent, clasping his chin with slumped shoulders  she quickly stopped laughing. “I do want to help! Not used to being helped?”

“No.”

“Deathly blunt,” she sighed again. “There is always a first time for everything, right? If I could help Eldie, sure I can help his dad,” she bent down to touch the kitten, which was curling on his shoulder.

“Then alright,” Ares got up, fastening his sword to his belt before checking on his horse.

“Hehe, nice to see you concede easily!” she fixed her mantle, revealing something she had carried in what looked like a leather utility bag slung across her shoulders. “Look.”

“You have an axe on your own,” he glanced at her, draping his cape over his shoulders right after he was done fixing his shoulder armor on him. The gloves followed shortly.

“Well, I am not a princess with servants to order,” she laughed again. “I’ve already planned to even before I got here with your clothes,” she continued watching him securing his horse—the saddle, the foot paddle, everything. She watched him putting a mask on his horse, including some body armor like he was about to go to war than foraging fire woods. “Ares, we are not riding to fight, you know.”

“There is no difference. Riding a warhorse is riding a warhorse,” he responded, fastening the armor on his horse before laying an extra thick rag over the saddle.

“But you are not on a mission,” she tried again. Even if what she pulled on the mercenaries were an act, her curiosity would never be. Chit-chatting with Ares also meant he would be sharing tips and tricks concerning warfare and the art of combat, and his flat tone—without the glorification or deprecation of both arts—pretty much only captivated her interest to know more. She still disliked the idea of people having to spill the blood of another, but by getting to know these two essentials more, she began to understand why people did what they were doing… why people struggled to hone the art of killing, to forge better weapons which rivaled the ones from the previous eras. And sometimes she got a few opportunities to remind him of a regular world where he could be at peace... a world without a smell of blood, a world where he could forget his sword even if only for a couple of minutes.

“Prevention is better than fixing things though,” he kept checking on the horse, slightly turning to face her. “And in case of snowing, sandstorm, anything else—the horse is ready.”

Just then her mind floated somewhere, imagining what this ‘anything else’ could be. His battles. His bloody battles to be specific. Perhaps she and the Black Knight were not actually that different. They were both survivors of unforgiving fates, and to some extent, they carried themselves in a way of readying for potential surprises life might throw at them. Like how she was used to utilize the back room when patrons got too excited while he prepared his horse and weapon with ‘what if’ in his mind. How she deflected advances she did not want and how alert he was of his surroundings. The means of saving money she commenced and the daily chores he did by himself because it was only him against the world, and he would fulfill his own needs without having to borrow another’s hand.

“Then why did you put another rag over there?” she pointed out. “That is probably too thick for the saddle. You are tall, so won’t it hinder you or make you awkward on horseback?”

“Today you are my passenger. If we are going to trace the forest, the ride may take longer or more perilous than usual, and I do not have a sideways saddle,” he gave a pat on the rag, as if testing it. Just then she understood what he meant—the kind of wider, softer saddle typical non-combatants or non-melee weapon wielders tended to have if they were riding while wearing a dress and sitting sideways.

“Can I just leave the sausages here for Eldie then?” her lips cracked into a crescent shape. There was also this kind Ares everyone else seemed to conveniently dismiss, and she felt lucky to see that side of him…

“Eldie is not staying,” the Black Knight stated firmly, tucking the kitten behind his cape, resting against his cravat where it liked to be. Just then she thought his eyes looked so soft when he caressed the cat.

* * *

 

She had been watching him with a smile on her face. He wiped his forehead when another large branch fell down to the ground, inhaling before setting said branch over a tree stump. Changing hand, he fixed the bandages wrapping his left hand before his arms dove again to chop what he just cut. A little mountain of piling larger wood blocks was dumped near where his feet were planted.

Somehow it was a nice view to see—Ares foraging fire woods, with a woodcutter axe in his hands instead of a sword. And he had been so engrossed in what he was doing that it was as if he completely forgot she was actually there with his cat she was feeding.

“Alright, that makes it a sixty,” Ares paused again, walking to where she sat and his horse tied.

“The fifth of it,” she grinned when his hand swam into the horse satchel to fetch for a canteen.

He caught her teasing tone and expression. “Going to be sixth,” he said, letting the cooling fresh water inside the canteen flow into his throat.

“Not anymore,” she leaped when he was drinking, racing to the little carpentry station he established. “You can’t stop me,” she stuck her tongue at him, positioning herself before a pile of branches waiting to be chopped. “You must be tired. Eldie also misses you.”

“I thought you wanted to say I stole your responsibility,” he chuckled, rubbing his fingers on the kitten.

“That too,” Lene picked a branch and set it over the tree stump. “You already chopped a lot. These branches and logs will only need some ropes to finish the job.”

“You stole my responsibility too,” his eyebrows knitted, “by feeding Eldie. So I covered you. Fair?”

“… I hate it when you sound so passive and who would have thought I don’t really like your businessman tone either,” she pouted. “Training, you said. Just an excuse to do my job for me…”

“Waiting on me, you said. An excuse to feed my cat,” he countered in her tone, dodging her fist as his chuckles were back coloring the serene forest. “Then please chop what I haven’t.”

“Like your ass?” she asked sweetly, laughing when he held up his arms, defeated.

“Hold on.”

“I know how to chop.”

“Asses?”

“Woods too.”  

“If you want to train, make a sword stance and chop the woods the way you swing a sword,” he said. “Don’t worry if you ruin the branches. Maintain your power and position. Can you do thirty chops?”

“Only thirty? We started at twenty-five when you first trained me seriously!”

“It can go further if the condition permits…” he said, as if looking for the suitable words. “It is slippery.”

“It has been raining heavily lately,” she nodded. “But what about it?”

“You dance,” he answered simply. “I don’t want to risk your legs.”

“You… are a worrywart,” she averted her eyes from him, but her tone did not indicate annoyance. Lene simply got to where Ares had worked before, and did her part as what they agreed prior. Turned out it was easier said than done, because it would be akin to maintain powerful swings each time her axe went down. This time she did not only have to keep her position stable and in shape, but her swings also needed to be commenced with the same manner and power. With branches waiting to be chopped, that added more dexterity task for her because not only she had to maintain her form, but her swings had to hit the targets.

When she did her fifteenth chop her mind flew back to him, who was watching her in silence where she previously seated herself with Eldie. The kitten was now crawling back at him, and she giggled when it was his turn to look somewhere else after cooing on Eldie. She recalled their interaction with Javarro, how reserved Ares was... and she was left with questions. Did he just have an image problem? But he seemed to let loose every now and then, if what she interpreted was correct—based on these times she spent with him. Despite all those talks and expressions which barked prestige—since he seemed to be too embarrassed to admit he actually _loved_ the kitten—he did not actually hide his resolve to save it. He even brought the kitten to the compound, sparing the rest of the group a _fuck you I’m doing it anyway_ attitude. Or was it her that he felt embarrassed to be seen with?  ….

Lene gasped when something caught her from behind. Tilting her head she found him stopping her, right before she was about to strike the axe down against another branch. His other hand was at the small of her back while his dominant leg pushed the back of her knee—one she used as a center of her stance.

“Told you it was slippery,” he said with a sigh. “You should see where your weapon heads to.”

“I was thinking,” she admitted. “… Do you fear the Chief?”

“What?”

His reaction looked genuine to her. “… Perhaps you are just _that_ fearless.” She made a mental note to just ask him next time he looked awkward. Perhaps his attitude was akin to a teenage son getting caught having a good time with friends and was embarrassed because his father saw it.

_… But a healthy parental relationship should not… make a child feel awkward, yes?_

“Not really,” he said, fixing the axe position in her hand. “A couple of seconds prior, I was not.”

She wanted to ask what he meant, but only then she realized her axe had been pointing dangerously downwards—straight onto her feet, before he came to fix her position.  She sharply turned her head at him to confirm her _suspicion_ —but he just waited where he was seated, with little Eldie lying peacefully on his lap. She shook her head, a smile blossomed on her face as she went back to chopping woods.

* * *

 

He unsheathed Mystletainn.

By the time the first rain drop fell on his nose, the demon sword stood proudly in his grasp. He glanced behind, seeing how his passenger fared. Her face was almost buried in his back that he could not gauge an expression, but she was shielding his cat from the rain that way.

She barely concluded the thirtieth swing after he stopped her in time before she harmed herself. The sky was graying, and he suggested they retreated, quickly taking charge by roping all the chopped branches to load the piles on the horse. She did not protest—instead, she volunteered holding Eldie so he could just concentrate riding. Slipping the kitten back behind her collar again, she draped the hoodie of her mantle hoping it would be enough to cover the kitten with her.

What Ares did not understand was why she had been maintaining a smile ever since he informed her that he was not actually as fearless as he appeared to be, but it was not on his top list because they were racing against time as downpour started coming over them.

“Forests tend to give a challenge for cavalry troopers,” he said before drawing his blade.

“What… will you do when you fight in a forestry area then?” she asked quietly, somehow wanting to hold Eldie tighter than usual. Judging from Ares’ previous reactions when loud thunders broke over them, she wanted to make sure everything would be alright.

“Lure them out to where I can hit better,” he replied as if it was not something to be concerned of. “Lene? I’ll open the way now. Duck!”

“Huh? W-wha—?” she gasped again. Mystletainn made a ferocious slash, cutting two tree branches and made them fall to her sides.

“Now we can pass,” he tilted his head, looking at her with a reassuring smile. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she assured him back, with the same cheerful smile which did not falter as the world started to turn gray around them. “Eldie is fine too. … But Ares?”

“Yeah?”

“… Keep talking to me,” she whispered when the horse began to gallop when Ares ordered it to as if commanding to rush at an advancing enemy. “And I can keep you updated about Eldie.”

Ares paused for a bit. “… Sure. Ask me anything,” he spared her a simple nod with a faint smile.

She returned the smile. They needed to assure each other now. A thunder roared above them and Ares made a zigzag maneuver to evade thick bushes and lush trees around them. They had to get out of the forest quickly because otherwise they would be trapped inside. If a thunder struck a tree then it would be harder to trace their way back to the main road, and it would be dangerous to spend a night outside without adequate preparation or even a place to shelter themselves from the rain like that. From the way Ares steered his mount, the warrior seemed to share her opinion about getting back to town rather than risking yet another night of being drenched in rainwater.

“Do you like cakes?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied, not sheathing back Mystletainn even once. Clicking his tongue again, the mount leaped over a big fallen tree and he had to pull the rein stronger since the road was slippery.

Lene noticed him pausing before the answer came out. “I’ll ask you things you don’t need to think twice.”

“Bring it on,” his simple reply came as he halted to scan his surroundings.

“I’ll ask you about warfare.”

“… Warfare,” he repeated, closing his eyes for a second. It was not that he couldn’t. Of course he could. And she was right—probably his answer would just _flow_ without a waiting period. But…

“Like why did you cut the branches from earlier but not this time?” she asked casually.

“The previous ones hindered our visions because the leaves were rather sharp. If we were to rush into them, might leave a scar. I need to keep my vision clear,” he answered. “The rain begins to pour. If I cut everything down then there will be no branches serving as our makeshift umbrella along the way.”

“And why do you stop?”

“Finding a running animal. Or a water source. Animals will run to a safer place, water source leads you to a river, which usually means it is close to the next town,” he said again, looking up before checking his pocket watch. “Past six now.”

“Ah? Oh—ah, right…” she checked hers.

“I need the sun,” he said. “I hope it is not too late. The problem is the sky is dark.”

“Sun?” she asked again, feeling curious this time. “Ah—about time to feed Eldie again?”

“No,” he gently shook his head. “To find the way. If it is setting then it has to be at the west since it is still fall. If the west is determined, then north should be about 90 degrees to our left…” he looked up again. Just then he rushed to get to where the sun was still pretty bright as if spotting an enemy.

“Oh…” Lene watched him in awe again. So this was part of warfare? So when he did not need to kill, he had to… survive. Ares sounded relieved when he spotted the sun. She would be lying if their condition at that time did not unnerve her—graying sky with quiet, awfully quiet forest, and the night was about to unfold. Worse, she had no idea where to head because the pouring rain started to blur her vision. What a horror. What a challenge. And yet there he was, again kicking everything where it hurt.

Ares got down off the horse. “Help me, Mystletainn,” he whispered to his sword as if beseeching for a blessing, before powerfully trusting it into the earth. Leftover bright sun ray fell on it, casting a shadow. “Lene,” he turned at her, “can you get me a branch?”

“Sure!” she responded, pulling a piece out of the pile he had compiled together.

“I won’t leave you there alone,” he spared a faint smile again.

“If I had to steal something then it would be Eldie!” she responded. How nice it was to be able to crack a joke in the middle of a horror-looking angry nature. … And how nice it was to feel comfortable enough since his smile made it as if everything was going to be alright. “… What are you doing, Ares?”

Ares marked where the shadow pointed with the branch she handed to him. “There. The west,” he pulled Mystletainn from the ground, drawing a quadrant with its tip. “If it’s the west, then the north, south, and east will be… yes, like this.” Just then he rushed forward as if charging an opponent. The battle cry he shouted wrecked the eerie silence around them, and he left a mark on the tree he charged. Breaking the branch in three, he pinned each piece on the directions he discovered.

“That was… awesome,” she breathed. “You know, I thought warfare was just that. War. Battles.”

“It was just a survival and reconnaissance method,” he said in a rather low tone, “… not awesome.”

“Heheee, you are embarrassed,” she giggled, pointing at him. “… Gosh, you are just way, way too Ares.” However with Ares finding directions, the ride was less perilous since at least now the horse knew where it should be heading. The horse neighed when a thunder cracked on their heads, and she reflexively clutched on his waist when the mount startled before galloping again. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“It’s alright. Hold on to me,” he responded, twirling the sword in his hand. Three more tree branches conveniently fell as the sword slashed through.

“Eldie is fine,” her voice trembled a little bit.

“Meow,” the kitten said, as if convincing him.

“I am fine as well,” he responded when thunder roared above them again. With her clutching on him and the cat meowing, both were actually enough to make him return to his senses when sounds of thunders nearly brought him to his knees again. He was racing against Nature—the most formidable enemy without even trying to be, compared to his other opponents so far. And Nature would not yield like him.

“I see a… I don’t know, a shed? Hut?” Lene spoke closely to his ear since thunders began to hail.

“We will head there and wait until the rain calms,” he nodded. “The sun…”

“… is setting,” she finished his sentence.

“Yes. But it is… there!” he shouted as if he was barking a command of assault. And then he threw Mystletainn. The blade smoothly left his hand like a flying arrow before thrusting into a tree shaft some distance away. Withering leftover sun ray fell on to Mystletainn, creating a refraction of lights as it also casted a shadow again.

Ares rode swiftly, grabbing the demon sword as his horse pass through. Mystletainn made another swift slash, disposing a branch which shielded their sight exactly at their face. “… We are out now.”

“Oh,” she commented, looking around. He was right. The forest was behind them, and they were back to the sandy ground again with the hut she mentioned being within a running distance. The sky was so dark like a sinister night, colored with flashes of lightning. “… Ares, you are right!”

“Thanks to you for seeing that building,” he responded. “We will now just have to tread the sands,” he nudged the horse again, and the animal altered between running and jumping to get to the hut fast while evading getting entangled with the sands.

“… That move just now was an attack, right?” she asked. “And it was as if you…”

“Decapitate an opponent. Yes,” his voice broke in his throat when he answered it. They did not say anything when Ares finally reached the hut she spotted.

It was not exactly a hut, but more of a ruin or what looked like an abandoned modest temple ground. The door was rusty, but it still could be closed and opened, which was good enough to shield them from the cold breeze and thunder at that moment. “Hello?” Lene called inside as Ares inspected the door. “Is anyone here?”

There was no answer.

“We will need fire,” Ares spoke after closing and opening the door back and forth. “And this can be sealed shut if there is a wooden plank long enough to be placed across in case the wind is too strong.”

“But how do we get the… fire?” she clasped her chin, eyeing what they had at the moment. Her lunchbox. A shivering Eldie which crawled out of her mantle. A horse needing to be soothed. The fire woods they collected. It was getting dark. With the graying sky and leftover sunshine getting somber and somber every minute, it would be only a matter of time before the darkness of the night consumed everything. She shuddered. It was not that she was a scaredy cat, but their condition bore uncertainties. What would happen when the night eventually came? What if the rain lasted? Could they find their way back to town, now that it was going to get dark without the sun as their compass? Should they camp for the night? With minimum to almost-unprepared provisions, could they survive? What an utter horror uncertainties were. And what even was this place?

Ares looked outside. Thunders simultaneously groaned in the sky, with flashes of lightning signaling their arrival. It was a spectacular view to behold—albeit scary, and he looked like contemplating something. “By praying for a luck,” his answer sounded uncertain, but proceeding to walk outside.

“What are you doing?!” she shouted at him. He was not going to do anything that might endanger himself, right? Why couldn’t Ares just… take care of himself for a moment? “Ares, it’s alright. We’ll survive without fire. It will be only a couple of hours until the rain subsides, right?”

“No. You are right,” he shook his head. “Even if we are not going to cook anything, fire is a protection to scare away wild beasts. We are not soaked, but isn’t it nice to feel warm?”

“Of course. But… what are you going to do?”

“Fishing for that luck we are praying for,” his expression changed, a bit mischievous this time. She was about to tell him he did not have to do anything just to get even with her, but he already ran outside, wrapping Mystletainn in the thick rag he previously set for her seating on horseback. A branch was in his grip instead of Mystletainn.

Meanwhile Lene assessed her surroundings. The somber sunlight which peeked into the building revealed some decorations and writings on the wall. She found old candles from what looked like a makeshift altar. She understood the building was used to be a temple before it got abandoned, and found a large wooden container around the terrace. The building had been erected higher from the ground, and although it was pretty old, the construction seemed to last. Perhaps the building was created to withstand sandstorm or preventing a quicksand. Not wanting to sit idly while Ares did all the chores, she dragged the container to collect downpour.

Lene watched Ares standing in the middle of nowhere. Although Nature was raging at the moment, it quite made a view. As the sky unleashed its magnificence over them, Ares stood over the sands, with the forest some meters away being his background like it was a horizon between two different worlds. He did not move. Not even when the first thunder they heard after settling cracked again.

“Ares!” she called on him. Rain began to pour harder, filling her container while he stood still.

When the second thunder broke, Ares quickly unwrapped his sword, holding it in a battle-ready stance like he was ready to unsheathe Mystletainn at any given time. Lene clutched on the board which framed the threshold, curious and truly anxious at the same time.

Third thunder.

“Come!” Ares shouted, rapidly unsheathing Mystletainn with a roaring battle cry. Lene gasped when he swiftly changed hands as lightning flashed again, this time grazing the branch he held with his left hand.

“Ares…” her voice trembled when a sound of something cracking blasted her ears. Remnants of blaring thunder could be heard fading away and she could not see what happened because he was crouching. “Ares!” not wanting to wait longer Lene braved the raging sky to approach him. The warrior slowly stood up, the thick rag draped over his shoulders, naked Mystletainn in his right hand while…

“Fire,” he smiled, showing the burning branch in his left grip when thunder struck it. “Let’s hurry.”

She nodded. They ran back to the hut, and she slammed the door shut while he pinned the branch on the makeshift altar, gathering loosening wooden planks inside. “I’m collecting… water,” she said, collecting half of her soul she thought she lost when he crouched after hearing the thunder.

“I saw,” he concurred. “Wise move. You are very smart.”

“Do not do that ever again,” she grabbed his arm, pulling him closer to her. Her index finger made a gesture which bore a warning. “You purposefully used your sword as conductor so that thunder would strike down. I don’t care how brave do you think you are, but that one just now…”

“… I am not brave,” he simply shook his head. “It was something I had to do. Better me than you.”

“Still!”

“If I was not scared, I would not bellow like that,” he patted her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Hnnn,” she let out a sigh. Normally she would counter him for doing that, but now…

They built a simple furnace with the fire he fetched. Warmth began coloring the room as darkness began to fall, and thunders yelled at each other outside their refuge. “Get some rest,” Ares softly nudged Lene, who leaned beside him. They sat closely to each other until their hands could reach from under the mantle she wore—or the cape he wore, in that case—to combat cold weather. Eldie conveniently perched himself on Ares’ shoulder, looking happy and contended after greedily drinking the milk Lene warmed for him.

“Can’t,” she muttered. “The darkness is… engulfing. We don’t even know what this place is.”

“A temple?” he gestured to the candles.

“Probably,” she agreed, “but I mean…”

“Are you afraid of ghosts?” Ares chuckled.

“Are you?” Lene yanked his mullet. “Not all ghosts are bad, you know? I heard some can provide guidance to the living and forewarn people when they lost their way in an unforgiving terrain.”

“I don’t care,” he answered, “living people are scarier because of what they are capable of.”

“Then sleep,” she poked his ribs.

“Can’t,” he shook his head again, laughing. “Now we are even.”

“How about we take turn, Ares?” she got up so suddenly, her mantle billowing near his face. “Ahaaa~ I know it! Your face says you want to stay vigilant!”

“Isn’t that normal, considering we have no idea what may happen in darkness like this?”

“It is only normal if you are willing to sleep as well! Besides, if there is another stranded traveler like us then this darkness is equally menacing to them, right? I mean—in case of trouble, I have the same chance to strike a potential threat just like their having to trace their paces carefully around here,” she said proudly, twirling the axe in her hand. “… But how do you throw an axe again?”

Ares seamlessly chuckled—and felt his mood improved—when she made her bravery speech. “Don’t throw it,” he rebutted. “If this is the only weapon you have in hand for now, do not disarm yourself voluntarily at ease. Do you want to fight one-handed or two-handed?”

“What is the difference?” she contemplated the axe in her hand.

“Because if you are to grip a weapon with both hands, there should be a distance between your knuckles,” he fixed her planted hands on the axe. “If you want to go one-hand, your grip should be on the hilt and not closer to the tip, let alone when it’s a dagger you are holding.”

“Dangerous?” she asked, swinging the axe to test the grip he just corrected.

“Yes. A blade is less sharp the closer its part is to the hilt,” he unsheathed Mystletainn to show her. “Because sometimes you have to…” he held the sword with one hand, while another horizontally rested on the blade part near the hilt, making a move to parry her axe. “… getting into your opponent’s periphery because of weapon differences.”

“What if someone comes at me with a lance?” she asked again.

“Dodge and get into their periphery so you are even. They have the advantage of a wider fortified area because the weapon’s length fends you off from a distance, but if you can neutralize that, a chance can be stolen,” he explained. “Likewise,” he made the same move as prior, this time twisting Mystletainn so the hilt rushed at her. Just then he removed his other hand, which rested horizontally against the blade part which was close to the hilt and had navigated Mystletainn onward—to make a spin that the sword made a side-slash across the opponent’s neck. “Two seconds and it is over.”

She chuckled. “It’s rather funny to me that we keep each other awake with drills like this.”

“If only I could teach Eldie to fight too,” Ares remarked, immediately meeting her pleasant laughter.

“And someone said he and his cat are not the same,” she twirled his flocks from the mullet she just caught. The kitten rose from slumber, looking around. “He is so alert like you too!” she beamed at Ares.

Eldie leaped from the top of Ares’ shoulder, eager to explore around. Under the dim light that was fire burning from their makeover furnace—or the old candles she also lighted, the kitten enthusiastically traced the room they were in like an explorer. However the agile kitten stopped before a path leading to a corridor, which was covered in complete darkness. “Eldie?” Ares called from where he sat.

The kitten wagged his tail before speeding into the corridor.

Lene chased after the cat. It was pitch dark, and if the cat did not meow, Lene would have missed him since he was so small. She scooped the cat into her arms, ready to mother the cat for the careless flight. But Eldie kept staring at the dark corridor, even growling this time. “What’s… the matter, Eldie?” Lene followed where the cat had barked a threat. Eldie appeared to be rather uncomfortable, growling and restless as he wagged his tail even more intensely this time.

Lene moved further. The corridor was dark, and she started feeling unnerved because of Eldie’s reaction. Alright, this was an old, abandoned building. They were getting caught in the midst of the rain, it was already dark inside and out, but… sure it was not like that, right? …

“There is nothing there,” Lene cooed on the cat again, trying to keep her voice calm and soothing when her heart started to beat faster. “Let’s get back to Ares,” she shushed the cat, steering her paces inside.

“Meow!”

Lene was startled when the kitten wailed before sneaking deeper into her hug. Caressing Eldie in her arms, she felt the kitten trembling in her enveloping hug. Such reaction faltered her. She recalled Ares chuckling when he asked if she was afraid of otherworldly beings—she barely even thought of it at all, but now… why did the kitten become so guarded if not… scared?

Lene turned around. Returning Eldie to Ares, who was about to stand up to chase the cat, she shrugged. “He looks… worried,” she said. “But the corridor is pitch black. There is nobody there…”

“Perhaps because we took him to a weird secluded place like this,” he pondered. “Sorry, Eldie. We’ll get out of here once this rain tames a bit. … I still can’t fathom how small he is. Gahhh,” Ares sighed as he patted the cat’s little head.

Lene giggled. She would not ruin the moment by pointing out to Ares he had squealed adoringly at the cat like that. “Right~! See, Eldie, there is nothing there…” Lene walked to the corridor again with Eldie still clutching on her. It was the same—pitch dark, with whatever awaited them at the other end.

A flicker of light startled her—so much that the hairs at the nape of her neck rose from their slumber. Lene felt her legs were nailed to the floor. She wanted to bolt out, but for a reason she could not fathom her gaze was fixed on the darkness, as if eagerly waiting for something… _someone_ … to appear. She glanced at Ares, who was still sitting with his back facing the wall, looking relaxed now that Eldie had returned to purr in his embrace. Mystletainn leaned diagonally against his body, alert he was as always because the hilt was close to his dominant hand that he could unsheathe it in seconds.

“There is nothing, there is nothing…~” Lene hummed again. Was her mind playing a trick on her? What light was that? It could be that there was a stranded traveler sheltering themselves from the rain like what they were doing right now. But they had been killing time by chatting merrily… if the traveler wanted to join in, they could have done so from the very start. Even if Ares was too intimidating to be approached, neither he nor she made any comment which should alert other people.

The light flickered again.

Something gradually appeared within her line of sight. It looked like an arm, followed by a movement which revealed a… torso. Something which looked like half of a person because the corridor was just so dark—and as it lingered closer that the light from the candles and their furnace could capture it, the figure was pretty clear for her to fathom now. Someone clad in… brown suit. Or so she thought. The expression on his face was hollow like he was so pained, and the darkness shrouded so much while the light sources they afforded could only reveal so little.

“Aaaah!” Lene shrieked, running back to where Ares and Eldie seated themselves. Out of reflex she crashed against Ares, clinging onto him.

“Lene?!” Ares went alert at an instant, feeling awkward at first because she clutched on him in a hug. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“T-there was a…” her voice trembled.

“What did you see?”

She shook her head again, her expression was a mixture of disbelief and distraught. “I—perhaps my eyes played a trick on me. R-ridiculous…” she chuckled awkwardly, but the Black Knight sneaked an arm over her shoulders to weave her in a comforting embrace. “U-um… Ares, I’m sorry f-for…”

“Tell me what you saw,” he whispered. Only when her body relaxed under his protective arm that he took his arm off her.

“A man,” her voice was that of a murmur. “I—I wasn’t sure, but… brown suit and… shoulder armor…”

“A man?” he rose, Mystletainn was steady in his grip. “… So that’s what alerted Eldie as well.”

“What are you doing?!”

“Starting a fight,” he replied, purposefully conveying his response in a humorous manner.

“He can be dangerous,” she whispered.

“I can be too,” he smirked.

“You stop that,” she huffed. “What if it’s a fugitive, Ares?”

“Then I’m fighting a fugitive?” he shrugged. “… Apparently my cat is not a cat but a lion like me, huh.”

“No, even if you go to fight 100 people I’ll still say you ARE cat-like than Eldie is leonine!”

He chuckled. “There, you responded. Feeling better?”

“Now you stop _that_ too,” she huffed again, but a faint smile appeared on her face. “… Thank you.”

Ares nodded again, returning the faint smile to vanquish her doubts. He calmly traced the corridor where Lene and Eldie previously explored. Fog battles were annoying, but he had his share of them, and if this was to be that then he was confident enough of his experience to help him overcome the doubts and fear for fighting an opponent his eyes could not detect. “Who goes there?” he asked. His tone was calm yet deep, demanding to be answered with a silent threat that followed.

There was no answer.

He went deeper into the corridor, holding his breath and proceeded forward without making a sound. He nimbly pulled his belt, whipping it to his sides hoping to land the first strike or catching the intruder off guard. Or if his belt bumped into something, he could gauge what awaited him there.

But it was still awfully quiet.

Lene was so relieved when Ares returned, all well without a scratch—only with his own belt rolled in his fist like a brass knuckle. “How?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Perhaps he ran away,” she tried to laugh, “because you are scary.”

“Smart guy,” he smirked again, fixing his belt back into his pants. “… Rest some more, Lene.”

“Come here,” she gestured to him.

“No. Consider me on vesper.”

“You mean…” she bit her lips. She should have seen that coming, with that mysterious figure or not.

“Yes,” he nodded. “If he meant to intrude, then he would be back. Bandits aiming for your money usually wait until the night falls because by then everyone will be asleep and a person is most vulnerable when they sleep.”

“That includes you too, you know…”

“Yes. But again, better me than you,” he replied simply. She looked like she was about to protest again, but retreating to sleep with Eldie in her embrace. Ares leaned against the cold wall again. Sleepiness started to slowly overtake him, and he cursed himself in silence. They were tired after working with the woods, but usually he could pull an all-nighter when needed. He was in his prime—healthy, young, able-bodied, and a seasoned fighter. How could he surrender to mere sleepiness—let alone like this? Or could that be… magic?

Ares cursed again. He tended to have poor luck with magic. He usually held physical or melee fights better than he could pierce against magical attacks, which made him have to devise a tactic to either lure the mage or avoid the spells so he could hit back. But defect-inducing spells could be a nightmare. Ares glanced around, this time was at Lene who was dozing off beside him. Could she be affected by the sleep staff—if it was? The dancer looked really tired—she had unintentionally leaned on him, and fell to his lap when he moved slightly.

Somehow having her head rested in his lap made his face blood-red. Somehow .… Ares cleared his throat, gently setting the thick rag under her head, fixing her mantle before eventually draping his own cape over her and the sleeping kitten. His awkwardness slowly turned into some gentle chuckles—recalling how spirited and vivacious she had been, how she asked him for a drill so that they did not fall asleep. How she covered parts he barely paid attention to, like collecting rainwater which they boiled to fill up his canteen, as she graciously shared her lunchbox with him.

And there would be a hell to pay if that insolent asshole with cursed brown suit showed up again.

“Hezul—ah, fuck,” he muttered before sleepiness took over him as well. He griped Mystletainn, tying the hilt into his palm with the rope he did not use. Mage or ghost, he would not be disarmed.

 

* * *

 

Lene glanced around. A flickering light reminded her of what she thought she saw—and how glad she was upon finding it was only the candles, being blown by the wind. She held her sweet giggles in her throat, realizing the predicament she woke up to. Black cape over her body and Eldie’s. Someone fixing her mantle, and the thick rag which provided some comfort to lie down.  Of course it had to be Ares.

The warrior leaned against the wall, asleep. If he wasn’t she would tease him again because he had fixed his sword into his grip like that, but something felt so peaceful, seeing Ares sleeping like that. He previously said he could not sleep, yet there he was, as calm as an attended baby. Lene bit her lips again because Ares was being Ares as usual—if he was tired, he should at least tell her!

Lene gently tidied his mullet, which was draped over his shoulders as his head slumped in a peaceful slumber. Draping his cape back on him, she shook her head. Ares was probably so tired that he hardly reacted when she did those all. Usually his eyes would yank open even before a person got to touch him.

 _Tsk tsk,_ she softly nudged his nose. _What a baby lion._

If they were not supposed to be alert, she would have braided his hair again. Ares’ so-called wrath for waking up cuter would make a great story to ride back home, but… the unnerving feeling suddenly returned. Was she just being paranoid, or did someone… something truly peek on them and watch them from afar?

Lene turned around, to find someone else there. The person gasped when she did.

“Oh, sorry!” she said.

Right— _she._ It was a woman, dressed in what looked like a pretty regal clothing of pink and purple if she was not so worn-out like that. Her hair, of the similar tone like her clothes, was worn in twin rolled tails albeit rather messy like she just went straight into trouble or a raging storm. She lingered closer, and Lene could see how her steps were trudging as if she was carrying the world on her shoulders. Still, the woman managed to move quietly without making a sound, a gesture Lene was secretly thankful for because it meant Ares could continue sleeping without his reflexes kicking in.

“Oh, it’s… alright,” she replied. “Um…”

“Are you stranded?” the woman asked. She really had the gentlest smile Lene ever witnessed so far. It was like an embodiment of strength and kindness at the same time; her eyes were firm, yet her smile was so warm that it instilled a surge of calmness in her.

“Ah… yes. We were just chopping woods, but taking refuge here until the rainstorm stops,” she replied. "Ummm. If the man from prior is your companion, sorry for… screaming like that…”

“You mean me?” Brown Suit lingered from the dark corridor. “I guess I scared you. Sorry about that, Miss. When I saw your friend, he reminded me of an old friend. Too identical that I felt so… shameful.”

“This is my husband,” the woman gestured to Brown Suit. “If you are stranded and wanting to head back to Darna, just follow this trail. It used to be rather perilous, but it’s been a while since people passed here…”

“Oh… I’m… sorry about that, Ma’am,” Lene chuckled sheepishly, “and you too, Sir,” she nodded at Brown Suit this time. “He looked like your old friend? Why, your friend must be a mighty warrior too!”

“Oh he was,” Brown Suit agreed. “His courage was peerless. That is why people gave him a nickname.”

“I… see. I understand, it has to feel awkward to see someone who looked so much like the person you used to know. But my friend is actually very kind~! It’s just he is so alert when the time calls for it,” Lene began to relax. “Are you stranded as well? You both look so… tired. I’m sorry, but…”

“It’s alright,” the woman shook her head. Her eyes looked very sad, although the resolve remained. “We are not actually stranded. But sometimes… when it is just right like that, we… get to talk to people.”

“You are from here then?” Lene seated herself better. Wow, this pair had to run into a great trouble or had done an exhausting work to appear like that.

“No. Somewhere else,” Brown Suit responded. “And now it is too late to get back.”

The woman’s husband looked very sad when he said so, which reminded her of his initial expression that looked like he was in pain. Perhaps these two got caught up in an unfinished business or trying to find a refuge when the Empire began to press its talons across the continent, she reflected. She had heard the stories of horror supposedly caused under the banner of the Empire, or the orders of what once the pretty benevolent Emperor Arvis. How Prince Julius’ whims caused so much distress that he could execute people on the spot for the sake of entertainment, apparently. And some people had raised arms about it. Some chose to flee to safety where the talons could not reach. But more often, the horror stories bore a similar ending—they all perished. Be it because the weight of their suffering consumed their spirit, or died trying to claim a life as a free person who refused being subjected.

“Would you… join us?” she asked gingerly. They still had some water from prior, and Ares had kept a simple tea pouch in his satchel during autumn in case he had to do night travels. Perhaps she could brew it for this pair, and told Ares later when the warrior woke up.

“That is very kind of you,” the woman touched her. Lene felt as if her spirit was lifted back—that simple gesture felt like a healing touch, because she was no longer tired or fatigued. In a moment it felt like an enlightenment, because gone was her sorrows about the horror tales regarding the Empire’s exploits and her muscles felt to be more at ease. Was she imagining things, or was she only relieved because the pair was friendly with her—and they were not bandits like what Ares suspected?

“Sharing is caring,” she smiled.

The husband smiled as well, but he shook his head. “Thank you, Miss. We’ve had so much that we barely could handle another,” he chuckled, but it was as if his lungs were melting.

“Oh, gods. Are you alright, Sir? This season saw harsher breezes and rainfalls. We must pay attention to our health under this kind of climate!” she attentively reached out to him. “But I’m glad though. Seems you actually had enough provisions, only that your clothes suffered!”

“You have a big heart. That will serve greatly in the future,” his wife laughed.

“Huh?” she looked at her, confused.

“Right? Some people broke under life. You braved it I take?” the woman responded. “My eyes had seen many things, you know. I’ve seen many kinds of people. Even those with deceiving appearance… or those who turned out to be a totally different person compared to what you imagined.”

“Wow,” she held her breath. “You must be traveling a lot!”

“We did not plan to. Yet here we are,” the husband looked at his palm before coughing.

“Are you sure you are alright?” she asked again. “Um… were you… injured?”

“Huh?” the husband looked at her, dumbfounded. “Oh. Ah, it’s an old wound. My wife was an excellent healer as much as she was trained with the sword,” he continued again.

“Was? Did you lose your staff under the rain?” she asked, concerned. “Um… I’m not a healer. I’m a dancer! But I live alone and I’ve been taking care of myself so I can probably help you a little bit,” she offered, gesturing at the slumbering Ares behind her, “including nursing this cub~!”

“Cub?” the husband frowned. “Like… a lion’s child?”

“H-huh? Oh, gosh. Sorry! It’s an inside joke between us! You see, he is a ferocious swordsman with a heart of gold. But he has this beautiful blond hair too so I tease him for being leonine,” she chuckled. “He used to say he was like a mini-me of his father. Somehow I find the nickname fitting…”

“A lion cub,” the husband repeated, “with a warrior father like him…?”

“I don’t feel like waking him up—I hope you don’t mind about that, Sir,” she said, firmly this time. “My friend rarely gets to rest like this and we… well, he, chopped some nice piles there at the forest. So…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, really,” the husband quickly retorted. “It is a blessing to have your children continuing your prided legacy indeed. Your friend must be proud of his parents.”

“It seems so,” she mindlessly agreed, recalling how resolved Ares was each time he got to talk about his father.  … And the very unpleasant way for the man to meet his end. She was about to ask if this pair had children, for ice breaker—but they looked rather young themselves despite worn-out. Yet the way they spoke indicated they were wise beyond their years, and it was hard not to feel a bit curious of what kind of life this pair had led. Were they businessmen? Refugees? Stranded travelers?

“… Ah, the rain seems about to subside,” the woman peeked outside. “If you want to get back to town, you should hurry before it rains again.”

“Ah… oh, yes, you are right!” she followed where she looked. “How about you? Why don’t we just band together to town? Four is safer than two! And you said the trail has been abandoned for a while!”

“Our destination was… never Darna,” the husband spoke, looking somber again.

“Ah… really? Where, if I may?”

“Grannvale,” his wife responded, but she said it in the manner as if the word felt like confined in her throat. Lene understood—probably too well. Grannvale or the Empire these days made a gruesome topic, and many more people would rather not even mention it at all. There had been too many sad and horror stories surrounding Grannvale or the Empire in its entirety, and Lene was more than wise to know she would not press this pair to spill their stories. After all, if it was yet another tale of horror and cruelty, she was not sure if she could bear it. Even the bluntly honest Ares would get pensive when his conversation touched Grannvale. It was not fear, but it was not adoration either. His pensiveness was unsettling, and although he tried to answer as best as he could, it was like as if Grannvale had caused a bitter emotional roller-coaster, and everyone would rather seal their memory shut.

“Nearly two decades ago, around here…” the husband started. “There was a… massacre. Perhaps that is why locals had avoided this route altogether. And somehow we persisted lingering—I wish I knew why.”

“Ah really? Hmmm! You should be careful, Sir. Bandits might take advantage of the situation knowing well not many people pass here these days,” she replied thoughtfully. “And if you are not from here, I think it is normal to stick to the one and only way you know. Especially if it’s what you always do. I bet you are not bandits! I don’t think stubbornness is that bad when it pertains a noble cause…” her eyes lingered at the sleeping Black Knight, and somehow her voice softened.

“Ah…” the husband looked at her.

“Ah, sorry! Gosh, I probably sounded odd to you! Umm…”

“It’s alright, Miss,” the husband smiled, and she had to blink because he looked so… radiant and contended. “You are right. I have no regrets. I was just trying to fulfill a noble promise for a noble friend, who had devoted himself to a noble cause. I…”

“Dear,” his wife linked her arm with his.

“… Right, right,” the husband smiled faintly. “Sorry for boring you with our stories.”

“Hnnn~? Not at all, not at all! Haha, if only Ares was awake, he was probably interested.”

“Ares?”

“Oh? Ahhh, it’s my sleeping friend there!” she gestured to Ares. “Gods. I’m sorry! I’ve been rambling about him to you without even mentioning his name? Ohhh gods, where are my manners as well! I am called Lene, by the way!”

“It’s alright,” the wife repeated the phrase again, gently touching her. “We have to go. Now I think we can. This chit-chat made me feel… so peaceful somehow.”

“Really? Me too! Strange, I feel so familiar with you Ma’am, although we just met. Ahhh~ must be your kind smile, isn’t it? Healers have that calming aura about them.” Ares made a sound as if he was about to wake up, so Lene gently squeezed his arm. She was right—he sighed, relaxed.

“There are more… formidable smiles though,” the woman chuckled. “Sometimes even a blossom grows at the battlefield. An enduring, formidable one. Perhaps that’s true about dancers.”

“Awh, now you are praising me back,” Lene laughed. “… I can’t imagine what the Empire had caused you then. I’m sorry, but… it just pains me knowing how so many people fought only to be vanquished…”

“But not for naught,” the husband responded with a burning resolve in his voice. “You cannot kill a dream even if you devastated an army. These people kept fighting because they bore a strong hope that one time justice would prevail. Perhaps they did not die. Perhaps they simply passed down all their dreams and hopes for the future generation. For the light… to tear into darkness?”

“Just like how you found us. You hoped to meet a bandit?” his wife teased, chuckling again. “The horror is despairing before fate seals itself for you. There are also untold stories, do you want to know?”

Lene nodded innocently.

“Tales of courage. Bravery. Devoted—“ the woman lowered her voice, “—and passionate love…”

Lene giggled with her.

“… Unbroken spirit. Friendship thicker than blood, a family that finds each other. Sweet, right?”

“Mm-hmmm,” Lene nodded. If only Ares was awake! Now _that_ would be the battlefield stories she wanted him to hear. There was light after darkness. Salvation in the midst of horror—

“See, the rain subsided. I bid you farewell,” the husband smiled. “Safe journey!”

“You two as well!” Lene waved back. They returned to the dark corridor, which suddenly appeared more radiant than before and not as intimidating.

* * *

 

“You are beaming.”

Lene giggled again. “You should be glad you woke up.”

“Concurred. I did not know I could be _that_ tired,” Ares grunted a bit, releasing his sword from the hand he had tied with a rope.

“See, Ares, you should have told me when you are next time,” she smiled before grinning mischievously at him, “if only you woke up a bit late, I would have braided your hair. What a pity.”

“I guess I’m not too tired then,” he smirked. “Did something happen when I slept like a log?”

“Mm-hmm~! I met the man…”

“Why do you look so contended?”

“Because he is really kind! I got to talk with him and his wife,” she responded. “And they said if we wanted to get back to Darna, we could follow this trail around this place. Apparently it is no longer a favorite path because people evaded it due to some… massacre, they said…”

“Hmmm. They saved us from getting lost and wasting our time by heading to where we came. If only I was awake, I would have at least offered him a drink,” Ares thought a bit.

“My thoughts exactly! But they said they already had too much that they could not take another,” she bobbed her head. “They must be an unfortunate rich couple who got entangled in the middle of Empire’s warring business. I pity them…”

“Did not know there was a nice lodge around here,” Ares replied. “Did I misread the sun compass I made myself…?”

“They said they weren’t from here indeed. So perhaps… somewhere else before they got here?” Lene slapped her forehead as soon as she said that, “I forgot to ask where they came from, specifically!”

“Now I feel bad for scaring them,” Ares muttered sheepishly.

“You did scare people’s soul away,” she giggled, “but I stick to my words just like how I described you to that kind pair.”

“… What… did you say about me then?”

“Hnnn~? Why, Ares, curious much~?”

“Tell.”

“Or~?”

“There is no ‘or’. Tell.”

“If I don’t want to~? Besides, interesting that even the husband could see how alike you are with a lion!”

“… He said that?”

“Hnnn~? Curious again?”

“You—“

“Hehe. Your death stares are not working on me!” she still giggled when the door behind them creaked.

“Excuse me…”

“Waaah!” she shouted out of reflex. “This time it’s a ghost! A ghost for real this time—uhhh…”

“I am sorry for startling you, Miss, but I’m very much a real person and not a ghost!” an old man peeked in, all smiles and chuckles in a comical manner that Lene suspected he secretly begrudged her for that. “I was about to check on this place, did not know we had guests.”

Ares grinned at her. He would have laughed heartily if she did not look genuinely terrified thinking she just saw a ghost, or the old man’s serenity which demanded a more proper interaction from them. “We docked for a few hours to shelter ourselves from the pouring rain,” he said, maintaining a very respectful tone, secretly enjoying to see her pouting. Never once it crossed his mind he would have his own turn to pull a subtle _I told you so_ on her, because usually he would be the one needing that.

“This place was abandoned for a long time, but now that the Loptyrian cult is on revival, I received words they might be reusing this old temple,” the old man explained. “I’m a villager. Formerly keeping this temple from people’s greedy hands when… you know, many people were not so kind to another just because they found out that the person worshipped Loptous.”

“So much that the name alone was still…” her words trailed, and the old man nodded.

“I tried to keep the angry mass from destroying and looting everything when they hunted down Loptyrian followers. Both the Emperor and the Crown Prince seemed to be pretty fond of the Lopts, and Count Bramsel did not think twice to approve the revitalization of this temple,” the old man went on.

“On Arvis’ money,” Lene sneered before she could prevent it.

“Well,” the old man shrugged, “Prince Julius’ to be exact, but yes, Miss. Otherwise, when did Bramsel ever have the money for something other than his own… necessities?”

“Ha!” Lene sharply chuckled, prompting Ares to smile faintly as well. The brave, formidable dancer…

“People were talking about seeing a pair of a husband and wife who got stranded yesterday night,” the old man continued, “right when it was raining heavily and the sky was dark. Was it you?”

“We just got here!” it was Lene who quickly answered, sensing Ares was about to deck the old man with his death glare— _do we look like married to you?!_ “Perhaps it was the travelers I told you about,” she turned at Ares this time, recalling the worn-out pair. It would only make sense if they were also there the night prior, which would pretty much explain why they appeared so exhausted and dejected.

“Really? But according to some village boys, it was empty…” the old man thought again. “… Never mind. I guess it can’t be helped, considering this was a bloody trail after all.”

“So did the travelers told me! A massacre, they said?”

The old man looked somber this time. “Right, Miss. About two decades ago, the knights of Leonster, alongside their commander, in this place, against Thracia…” he shook his head. “It was pure horror.”

“Thracia and Leonster had always been at each other’s throat or so I was told,” Ares commented, recalling one of his absent chit-chat with the Lionheart before the war broke. “And Thracia boasted seasoned mercenaries who could fight as competent as a formal standing army. So perhaps…”

“Gods. What if that pair was related to someone who perished there,” Lene said. “I should not have asked them… I feel so bad now…”

“Don’t be,” Ares patted her head. “What if they were glad because thanks to you, they could talk about it with someone else. Let’s return now before it rains again.”

“Must be nice to be tall and uses another person’s head to rest his hand…” she grumbled comically.

Ares chuckled. “Then let’s be on our way. We will return to the compound, split these woods and I’ll take you home,” he bowed on purpose, “thank you for protecting me while I slept, Miss.”

“Protecting… you?” she was stunned for a while.

“And returning my cape it seems. I don’t think those ghosts would have done it,” he grinned.

“Told you, they were not ghosts! Just a pair of stranded travelers like us!” she felt like yelling at him out of a sudden—not sure if it was because he teased her again or her chest swelled with pride because he just thank her for… _protecting him._ She, protecting _him_? “… Ares, did you actually think that they…”

“Hmmm?”

“N-never mind,” she elbowed him in the ribs. “Hold on. Returning with you to the compound?”

“Yeah?” he responded.

“The Chief would make a snide comment again since we return together and you helped me with my share…” her expression turned gloomy for a bit.

“So did you with mine. What is it that he will be complaining about?” he shrugged.

“You? I mean… me,” she tried to say it in a humorous manner, but she just… could not.

“Those are a burden,” he pointed at the fire woods he compiled on horseback. “… This one is not, rabbit.” This time his hand landed on her head again, gently patting it.

“How convenient…” she pouted again.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, arching his back to bend. He took her hand, placing it on the top of his hair. “Convenient enough this way?”

“Hnnn,” she let out a sigh, taking turn to ruffle his mane. “I wonder what will you do when I can’t reach.”

“You just wonder about it… _now_?”

“Meanie,” she lightly punched him in the nose.

“There, you reached me,” he chuckled again.

“You are in a good mood,” she replied sullenly. “It’s a metaphor, a metaphor, Ares! Because it’s like there is this big gap between us. You know all these survival methods. You got us out of the forest, and…”

“And you collected water. You checked what scared Eldie,” he gestured to the kitten, which was back to his throne—behind his collar. “You heated the milk again so it did not go bad. You accepted strangers easily and offered them what you have although you barely talked with them.”

“True. But what if I can’t reach when I… need it? I mean…” she pondered, following his footsteps to the horse, which was waiting with fastened pile of fire woods on its back.

He draped the thick rag again before hoisting himself up to mount. “Then take my hand.”

She looked up. From horseback he had extended his hand to her, who was walking behind him and waited on him to mount so she could climb up herself. “… If you say so,” she responded with a gentle smile. He waited on her before ordering his horse to gallop. Back to the town, to Darna… and somehow the sky was calm and she felt so at peace as the night started to fall.


	18. Holding

… Nobody would have thought that a simple cozy bar in Darna could be the epicenter of earthquake…

Well, even she could not.

The sun barely tilted when people started making their way into the bar. In no time seats were occupied, menus being asked and foods were being inquired. Such view was not uncommon, especially with the weather only getting colder now that autumn was close turning into winter.

She had been rehearsing with a group of musicians when the dinner rush happened. From behind the thick curtains which barricaded the stage from everyone else’s views, she could hear the front door being opened multiple times, followed by typical chatters all the newcomers seemed to be doing—first cussing the weather, second being how much or how terrible the downpour they had to endure. When misery finally found its company, sounds of chairs being pulled would follow, with people simultaneously sighing, calling for the waiters, or dumping their thick and heavy coats on the table.

Lene clutched on the curtain. Her eyes landed on a pair of diners who occupied the closest chair to the stage—a mother and a child. The mother ordered a plate of meal and hot milk, and was now busy coaxing her toddler to eat. The toddler, with bright big brown eyes and the most optimistic smile she ever beheld so far, pursed her lips while turning her back against her mother.

Unconsciously, Lene followed the toddler’s gestures. She had been too familiar of life that she could pick up what clues such simple scene yielded—even if she was to say so herself, even if she just wanted to feel good playing investigator once in a while. The mother fixed her coat for the third time ever since they were seated—something which made her think of her own, now waiting for her return in loneliness at the backstage. Tired-looking mother with a toddler refusing to eat, one plate of food and a glass of hot milk; nothing could be more obvious than the mother being poor, and her coat was worn out.

Another rush stormed inside the bar, this time louder than the others. Exchanging glances with the musicians—who were tuning their instruments or practicing themselves—they gave her various looks. However, from a shrug to a frown which indicated a dislike, ironically the stares conveyed a uniform message that such occurrence was to be expected.

There was no time to delve in the thoughts because the performance had to start.

… And perhaps better this way. She was there to dance, and retreated to the backstage if not spending the rest of the evening with the musicians. She should not care for what happened at the tables, of what lied before her and concentrated only on the dance. After all deviation ruined perfection, and she wanted to present a flawless performance every time she had the chance to dance so she could live up to her mother’s image.

And maybe someday she would reach the top like she ever did. Maybe someday her slow ascend to the top brought her to the find the clues regarding the supposed extraordinary dancer’s footprints. After all a lion recognized another lion the way a wolf did another. If she could be a lion in her own path and profession, then perhaps…

… After all life did not only mess with her or her mother. Not that it only broke her family either. With that in mind she was supposed to be aware that a weary-looking parent and a misbehaving child should not be a concern… _her_ concern. After all she had witnessed other things from across the stage, and among these things she would rather have them buried.

Perhaps it was truly something to witness so much at a young age.

“It’s time,” a voice startled her.

She nodded.

And with it, the curtains were lifted slowly.

People turned their heads, and some already clapped hard when they saw her entourage on the stage. She proceeded with her usual routine—waving, and then throwing a charming smile brighter than usual which she secretly directed at the brown-eyed kid. Lene’s smile was even warmer when she could hear the child’s bubbly enthusiasm by the time the lyre player started testing the strings.

“Oooh, a dancer! Look, a dancer!!”

The music began.

Lene started her routine with the similar gestures she would do each time she performed. A solemn bow, one of the best cheerful smiles she could offer because she did have many of them. And she was professional. Too professional for her own sake, the smiles she threw from the stage conveyed that they could dissolve all the darkness in the world like how refreshing water swiped the dirt off one’s body.

She hoped off the stage when the music got to the refrain. Taking the child’s hand with her, she swung around, laughing while the child spun under her arm. One leg stretch for a standing-split followed by her soft “Uh-huh,” hum with a concerned head shake when the child attempted to imitate her movement. From the corner of her eyes she saw a weak light emerged from the mother’s eyes, and Lene hoped off from table to table, entertaining the occupants as she made her way to the counter. A spin, a twist, a turn—a welcoming arm like an invitation to follow her lead. Some handshakes, some cheery “Hello~!” greetings followed as a number of audiences clapped their hands to accompany her stops.

Lene lingered closer to the counter, meeting the barkeep’s tired but understanding gaze as he lifted a glass of lemonade for her. “Seriously, thanks,” she whispered. “And can you tell Maeve—the barmaid—to get something for the poor mother with a child over there?”

The barkeep had not responded yet when she swiftly drew a piece of banknote from under her corset. She laughed off the old man’s bewildered stare, taking the lemonade in a manner as if showing off the glass to the entire audience who eagerly waited what she would do next. “You should know we are witches who do magic,” she stated.

Lene laughed again, dramatically holding the glass as she made yet another twist with one leg stretching to form an acute angle. Her ankle bracelets made rhythmic sounds when she brought the leg down, and she emptied the glass in one take as if one did beer. “Delicious!” she declared with a wink.

Another merry night yielded another glory for her stardom. People, particularly men, had a sudden lemonade craze after her clever performance with the drink. They either rushed to the counter themselves or called for the waiters, including Maeve the barmaid who had been hot on her toes delivering foods to the tables. “Damn. The Lene effect,” the barkeep smirked as he passed four glasses to anticipating customers from across the counter.

“Don’t forget the child,” she whispered firmly to the barkeep as she hopped again, ready for delivering some spectacular moves before the music eventually died down.

“Maeve,” the barkeep shouted at the barmaid, who was anxiously carrying five plates for one crowded table near the door.

Lene glanced at the table, and she was experienced enough to be able to tell a thing or two about the crowd. Five rowdy men threw crude jokes at each other as if they were engaging in a contest of who could make their friends feel awful if not aiming to collectively embarrass themselves first. Back then Maeve would playfully criticize her for being judgmental for her trait of ‘telling’ customers. And back then Lene would whole-heartedly shoot back that she was more than willing to be proven wrong, because she had seen similar things unfold many times—some men were either too drunk or too asshole to respect a boundary, and they took her explanation about them not being entitled to touch her worse than a five year old could understand. Sometimes these two categories overlapped each other, and with a heavy heart Lene declared her victory against Maeve while showing her that these men’s mentality made the primary cause of all the troubles first-hand before the drink even came into the picture.

“Five is too many, don’t you think?” she casually lingered near Maeve, taking two plates with her. Maeve was a woman with the kind of beauty that could nail anyone to the ground—she was a natural entertainer for her witty remarks, and her blood red-colored lips with thick curly raven hair only accentuated her face even more. The barmaid had sharp cheekbones and rich reddish-brown complexion with curves some people might be willing to die for.

There were times when she wanted to shield Maeve as much as the older woman had protected her when she began climbing the fame. Those times saw her frugality like none other. When she forced herself to a hot spring to relieve her exhausted legs because buying herbs and hiring a masseuse might mean once-a-day meal than the twice-per-day she already had, for example. When Maeve sneaked sandwiches for her, when Maeve bought her a silk bolt after a deranged man slipping a stash of thick banknotes under her gown, when Maeve had to force her to sit because she was so exhausted. When Maeve be the fence she needed to tell diners that there would not be a dance that night.

Looking back Lene did not know how she managed to do these all. Maeve and the barkeep had joked about her being gifted because she seemed to be so healthy and enduring, while other dancers who took on her routine might have collapsed due to exhaustion. She had to be honest with them that she did not really understand why, but she had felt it as well—things that seemed to affect others would need a second, third try to impact her. Perhaps it was her sheer willpower. Perhaps what she inherited from her parents had a hand in it. Either way, it only fueled her resolve to find more information regarding her mother. Just like what she told Ares, she did recall her mother had similar hair color like hers, and that she was a dancer with a lively smile.

Lene had a lingering question whether her mother possessed a faint, faint birth mark like the one she had on her left ankle, though. If only she could simply run into a green-haired woman with a curious birth mark, her quest would probably be easier. The earth probably could have swallowed her mother…

“Thank you,” Maeve mouthed to her as both began setting the plates on the table. “My head feels hammered and I’ve been here for the whole day.”

“You can use some rest,” Lene replied earnestly. “If the cook was done with the extra meal I asked for, I’d bring it to the table myself.”

“Heard you asked for that weary mother over there?”  Maeve gestured. The dancer nodded, anxiously fidgeting with her bottom-wrap cloth she used for her dancing costume. When Lene was about to say something, she could feel the barmaid’s hand gently squeezing on her arm. “Hit too close to home?”

And just like prior, Lene could only nod. “I fear for the worst.”

Maeve tightened her grip on the dancer’s arm. From the corner of her eyes, she could see the barkeep made a gesture at her, signaling her to come to the counter. “The meal you paid for is here.”

“Then I’ll take it to their table myself,” Lene smiled. “Get some rest, ‘sis.”

“You too,” Maeve looked at her dead in the eyes. “I may not be Sir Black Knight, but you _will_ take a rest.”

Lene sighed. “You people will just support him each time he duels my wits.”

“Don’t worry,” Maeve laughed this time, “the barkeep also supports you each time you duels his.”

Lene grinned. It was not like anyone could come any day just to challenge the Black Knight. Apparently the barkeep had been her secret fan considering there was a good chance she would manage to temper the lion. Well, Lene did not bother to tell Maeve—or anyone else so far, basically—that they really got it wrong about him. If only they could see how _innocent_ the feared Black Knight actually was, and how she did not really feel like doing anyone justice by reining in the lion or whatever it was they called her interactions with him. She simply stated simple reasonable things, which for some reason he seemed to be surprised for. And that was why he would always be innocent to her—because he looked genuinely confused or startled when she presented naked humanity to him, such as… gosh, she recalled how he was still in disbelief that she wished him to pay attention to himself and be out of the danger zone.

Regardless, Maeve gave in and began retreating to the kitchen, so she made a quick beeline to the counter to fetch the meal. Her initial intent to rush to the table was halted because her own thoughts began clouding her. Okay, she meant well. But what if the mother refused her? She knew such hesitation too well; the feeling like one’s dignity as a person was ripped to shreds for having to be helped in fulfilling the most basic needs.  

Lene inhaled. She was confident in herself. She had been handling people since the day she picked up dancing as her livelihood. After all her mission as an entertainer was to make people forget their pain and suffering, would not a warm meal, delivered with a cheerful greeting and colorful clothing be it?

“Your dinner, Ma’am,” she set the weary mother’s plate on the table.

“I did not…” the weary mother responded at an instant. “Wait. You are the dancer!”

“Mm-hmm!” Lene winked at her. “You have a lovely child! I’m sure she’d love to eat with you.”

“… Oh, you don’t—have to…” the mother replied weakly. “Is that why my daughter did not want to…”

“Please stay strong,” this time she knelt before the mother, her hand ruffling the child’s hair. “And please, do not…” Maeve was right. This hit too close. She nearly felt like choking, to do this all. But if she had to just so the mother would take the food, she would try. “… I beg of you. Your daughter loves you very much. I’m sure she’d rather have you than… I’m sorry, please, just please hang in there. Please don’t… don’t abandon her or sell her from here. Please.”

The mother gasped. “How did you…”

Lene could only smile sadly. No—she would not have it. She did not want to turn the night into a sad, melancholic one; after all she was there to do the opposite. And that was what they paid her for. “Just promise me you’ll fight so hard for her,” was the only answer she mustered to the mother. When the woman was about to say something else, Lene raised her arms, making her return to the stage in two spectacular cartwheels.

“Thank you! Thank you, it’s nice to have you all here tonight!” she waved to her audience once again, purposefully bowing in a delicate bashful manner like she was this dainty girl who just wanted to have fun and made others happy while doing that. Thunderous applause followed when the curtains closed again, and the musicians exchanged smirks and grins with her because of the little show she presented.

“You just _know_ how to enthrall your crowd,” the lyre player chuckled, tossing a towel at her. “Here. For a moment we thought you’d fall into oblivion when you began doing that!”

“Thanks!!” she cheerfully caught the towel. “I’m grabbing some refreshments from the kitchen.”

Lene hummed. Her steps were light and lively, and she simply chuckled recalling her cheeky exit—then, and now. Retreating to the kitchen gave her the privacy she most likely would need after a voluptuous welcome from the audience, and this way she could check on Maeve. She had been too familiar with everything—usually people who would want to chat her up waited for this moment to converse with her, and some other time, she would be pressured to engage men who wanted her as well. And not tonight. With a big sister-friend down and a poor mother with a child, Lene felt she needed to sit down as well.

“Hello, Adela,” she cheerfully greeted the cook. “Some nice munchies for the musicians?” just then she found Maeve sitting on a stool attended by the cook. Her cheery tone died down, replaced with a concerned one. “... Something wrong?”

“She collapsed,” the cook was the one answering. “Migraine. Fatigue. And you know, weather.”

“I’ll get something from the counter,” without missing a beat, Lene left, ignoring Maeve’s weak apologetic smile as she managed to tell the dancer that everything would be under control after she managed to steal some rest this way. She made quick small steps from the kitchen, sailing a sea of customers who were either about to leave or just came in.

Lene tilted her head, feeling something tugging on her when she was close to reach the counter. It was one of the diners who made loud entrance, occupying the table which Maeve last served. The dancer swallowed her surprise, quickly taking control of what just happened by putting up her typical cheerful expression. “Hello! Is something the matter?”

She was facing one of the rough men at the table. If she did not like their loud entrance then, she sure had a problem with his rudeness now. He had deliberately stopped her, and last time she checked she could talk to people just fine without having to be touched. “Do you serve food too?” he asked, “because then I’d love some.”

“Sometimes I help what I can,” the dancer replied politely, trying to keep up a straight face even though the eyes darted on her felt like gobbling her up. The eyes felt like devouring every exposed curve of what her dancing costume showed, and pierced through what it did not. She knew it. She knew it too well, and as always she would subtly deflect all the advances no matter how she personally felt about it. She was used to making retreats, withdrawing as soon as anything which required her to be the center of spotlight ended.

That was how she survived—by holding on. By hanging on the threads while trying to steal a chance to anchor said threads and made her escape… then only to face similar challenges in the next day, and another, and the other… hoping that someday all the hard work would not be fruitless that she found a lead about her mother.

“Then you sure can help me?” the man gleamed.

“Sure! I’ll get the waiter for you,” Lene spared a cheerful, reassuring smile like she truly meant it. Well, to be fair she did mean it. She’d be gone when the waiter came, in the safety of her backstage room, where she would wait until things calmed down before slowly emerging like a shadow. Silent endurance because for most women, a battle lasted as long as they lived. For women like her, they conquered the world by taking the worst it had to offer and stayed alive to see the next day.

“No, sweetheart,” the man muttered again, walking to her. “I mean I want you.”

It was as if all the things he left unsaid oozed from all his pores to her. The not-so-silent-anymore intent if not for the body language itself betrayed him—the way he looked at her, the way his eyes scaled every inch of her skin. The subtle lips-licking she unfortunately managed to catch. “Hmmm? Sorry, I don’t understand! A waiter can _wait_ on you. I’m only a dancer, so all I can do is dance!”

Lene grabbed a glass of fresh water. Despite the barkeep’s generosity here and there with practically everyone working at the bar she never felt comfortable enough to just take whatever she wanted without informing him first. And that was how she did it, like everyone else involved in the business. Not touching what was not specifically said to be yours, holding on to what you had…

Deflection, deflection, deflection. Endure, endure, endure—

“Charming aren’t ye? Lemme tell you what I actually mean!”

“Charming? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I still don’t understand because I’m dancing, not charming!” Lene let out a sweet, sweet innocent laughter as she moved away from the counter. Many men whined about being deceived. She’d say they asked for it—for if they did want to put their money where their mouths were, they would have been able to tell that they were not wanted.

“Are you playing hard to get or just as naïve as some sweet, sweet vanilla scent?” he winked at her.

Between wanting to vomit in her mouth for the thing she was being compared to or readying herself to execute one of the escape routes she prepared every night, Lene bid her time. Subtly turning them down, enduring everything else to seize the perfect chance to get out. … And sadly those in the higher power dynamic pyramid were often unable to handle rejection. Well, if they could not, then all she wished for would be not being blamed when the truth came out.

“I need to deliver this for my friend back there,” she stated, keeping her voice firm. Her eyes were fixed on his, hoping it would be enough to herd his eyes back from other parts of her body they currently docked on. Sweet as vanilla scent—even if it was true, gods be damned if vanilla could not intoxicate someone enough that they walked into a disaster without realizing it.

“That’s an excuse I’ve never heard before,” the man kept pressing on her. “My gang and I there know many dancers, you see? And they are usually great with words.”

 _Maybe because you people can’t find the no in all the noes,_ she wanted yell, but something else caught her mind. “You gentlemen know many dancers?” _Gentlemen. For fuck’s sake._

“Yeah?” Lene’s eyes widened when he casually ushered her to the table he occupied with his friends. “Isn’t that right, boys? Ha! I know it, you’re just playing.”

 _Hang in there, Maeve._ “Good! Then there is something I’d just like to ask~” she cautiously trod her steps, preventing to position herself where she’d be easily cornered. This was not supposed to take long. She would ask what she wanted to know, and then save herself from trouble before it brew further. “Have you heard of a dancer called Silvia, perhaps? Blossom of the battlefield or something like that?”

“Blossom of the battlefield?” the men stopped whatever they were doing, but not for long because the very same roaring laughter struck back. “Why would a blossom be at the battlefield? Oh, hold on a sec. You are actually right. Sure I have!”

“You do?” Lene clutched on the glass she was holding while her mind raced. _Endure, endure, endure. Hang in there. Hold everything still._

“Yeah. That’s called my bedroom!” the one who responded made a splash of obnoxious laughter. “Why would the name concern you though? Dancers are to enjoy, not to interview!”

“I see,” Lene responded, laying out the words one by one as if she had to flay them out of her brain. “I’m sorry for taking your precious time!”

“Come, dear. It’s alright,” he caught her arm again when she made a small courteous nod before leaving while the others tried to convey a similar intent in a lesse humane way—whistling as if calling a dog.

“Mmm. Thank you~ but my friend is waiting on me! I’m not good to interview, you see,” she forced a smile before backing off, making a playful run to the kitchen. Of course it had to be playful. Of course it had to be subtle. Of course everything had to shrink her as a person—to make her small, unassuming—

And back there she found the cook nearly failed to stop Maeve the barmaid from picking up an apron again. “Oh, good,” the cook uttered the moment her face peeked in. “Help me here. Damn it, Maeve.”

“The last time I heard some person with big sisterly love hated that I exhausted myself,” Lene chimed in, taking off the apron before both women could react. “So, she’s right. Damn it, Maeve!” the barmaid had a bitter smile on her face, and for a moment Lene was reminded of Ares, who even got melancholic—if not dramatic—when he was unwell. _Some people are just that type,_ she thought, _perhaps they’ve been being so strong and holding it together for a long time…_

“You came here holding your breath,” Maeve said, throwing her beautiful raven locks behind her shoulders. “Those rough people were persistent, right?”

“Sir Black Knight isn’t here tonight?” Adela, the cook, cut in.  

Either the exhaustion or tonight had been too much for the dancer—or all of the above. Suddenly she felt so tired of everything… not to mention the poor mother and her bright daughter reminded her of her past. When it was enough to make her feel gloomy, she longed for a respectful crowd who could see her as a human being, not a star without emotions and only happy rainbows on her face—or a walking piece of beautiful meat at a butchery for an auction. And she wondered what she hated more that night when Ares was brought up into the conversation—either it somehow felt as a testament of how weak she was and how dependent she had been to him, or that his presence… _a_ _man’s presence,_ she thought again, had been so strong just like his person that people seemed to forget that no, before Ares came along in the picture and be her trusted companion, she had always been here, doing the things she always did, surviving in the same manner and enduring similar things every night. Sacrificing time to query her mother’s whereabouts—to people who were either too clueless that yes, assholes, dancers might have lives and families, and bore the brunt of life just like other members of the lower societal classes. That tragedy did not just strike the knighted and the titled, and even when the women whose names were either scorned in envy or worshipped in lust tasted glory, the crown did not stay long.

“I am me,” with the same tone she used on the persistent man, she responded. Slowly, slowly, slowly. “And I’ve always managed, with or without Ares.”

Adela seemed lost, but Maeve picked up pretty quickly. She was a barmaid, a foot soldier while Adela worked behind the door to create magic that was dinner meals. Lene had heard Maeve playfully tried to seduce Ares the night he helped her with her dirty purse, with Maeve chuckling that the Black Knight turned her down without prefaces and hesitations. Maeve needed what she needed, and even when she was not there to do that or attract people to buy more drinks, it was Maeve who first saw the fire in her eyes and wished for her safety unlike her own skin which had become a reluctant canvas of forceful brushes; in the forms of unwanted touches.

 _They will begrudge you no matter what,_ Maeve once said. _Whether it is about the curves you have or you do not have. The clothing you wear or do not wear. Sometimes I think the gods creates women as a sadistic joke. It’s a curse. And don’t think everything will turn magically different just because you wield a sword. Female warriors and conscripts are not new to this land. And yet…_

 _Who is this ‘they’ you are talking about?_ A younger Lene asked anxiously. She was to dance. And only that. And perhaps mingling with locals and patrons to find Silvia’s whereabouts, which was why she was willing to do a livelier performance whenever she knew tourists would dock at the bar.

 _Everyone, dear. Everyone,_ Maeve pursed her lips, making a tight smile as if she was surviving a stab wound. _And it is funny how happiness drives people nuts. The world hates happy women._

“Adela meant well, little Lene,” Maeve’s voice softened. The world was breaking over her, and Lene wished she could load Maeve into her room the way she did Ares just so the older woman could rest.

“I can’t imagine what’s like to be there doing the things you do,” Adela murmured.

No matter what, sisterhood could be found anywhere to challenge the world, to break the barrier life forced on women. Be it a solid knightly orders, or even in the desert’s bumfucknowhere. “I’ll check if Ares comes so he can take Maeve home,” Lene gave them a reassuring smile.

“Will he?” Maeve’s eyebrows knitted. “I don’t have enough money to hire him.”

“He will,” Lene smiled again, even more tender this time. “You guys do not know Ares.”

“That is obvious, duh,” Maeve’s mischievous grin was back, prompting both the dancer and the cook to exchange glances with each other. The old Maeve was back. Everything would be alright—

“Don’t break a sister’s heart tonight,” the cook teased, softly pulling a strand of the barmaid’s hair.

“The handsome devil is as handsome as one can imagine, alright,” Maeve chuckled again. “But I find the blunt voice of reason here more interesting. You know, the kind of person who will bludgeon your stupid head with a rolling pin but make a bread with it for you afterwards?”

Just then she winked at the cook.

Adela’s face went red. “If you want me to _pound_ you, just say so, damn it,” she whispered.

Lene chuckled when Maeve’s soft giggle serenaded the kitchen as she pulled in Adela for a hug. She left whatever she grabbed from the counter near the kitchen counter to find Ares. His presence was usually easy to notice because people would stay away from his seat. It would make a subtle scene—the crowded bar being divided into two different worlds, with one small untouched area that was the periphery of his location.

She would only need to hang on a little bit more. Just a little bit more for tonight…

Joining in Ares caused people to condemn them with the propriety dagger glares, and what once a diva became a notorious bitch for being within the Black Knight’s arm length. It was unfair. Totally unfair either for her or Ares—but as unfair as it sounded, people usually left the notorious ones alone.

“Hey, lass! Not hungry?” the barkeep called from the counter. “Here ya go. You have this habit of feeding people like you are their caretaker, but seriously, feed yourself too,” he pushed a plate of grilled sandwich with melted cheese to her.

“How much?” the dancer whispered.

“Later, lass, later. Gods, don’t do that often,” the barkeep pointed at her corset.

“Ha! Why act prudish now of all times, Uncle?” the dancer laughed. “I was just looking for Ares.”

“I don’t care. The shit is, I saw you running a moment ago,” the barkeep replied thoughtfully. “I may be old but gods be damned if I can’t learn something, with or without _his_ ferocious death glare around.”

“So he is not here,” Lene spoke after giving a thought. “I was thinking if he could take Maeve…”

“I’ll tell him to look for you if I spot him,” the barkeep replied. “Straight to the kitchen?”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Uncle,” the dancer let a sigh of relief. Finally the night would end for her. And if Ares was not here, at least she did not need to stroll around to the dining area just to look for him. She could wait with Maeve in the kitchen, and if Ares indeed did not come at all that night, she could take Maeve home herself… or perhaps with Adela, the dancer smirked at the thought.

Lene felt her steps lighter. Just a little bit more until he arrived or for the crowd to disperse…

“There you are, sweetheart. I knew it, that’s just an act,” the man from prior pointed at the plate she got from the barkeep as he moved closer. “If you stay longer I’d have told you what to get!”

“H-huh? Oh—sure…” not knowing how to respond Lene set the plate that was actually meant for her on the counter. “Now that you got your food… ~”

“Not so fast, little wren,” he closed in on her. “Twice a day is rather boring.”

“I’m—sorry. I don’t—understand?” this time she was truly baffled. And what now—little… wren?

“Yeah? Trying to escape me again through playing?” he slid one step closer. “Just tell me. I’m willing to pay more for more services, or are you acting nicely because you are not like other girls?”

Lene’s eyes widened. That gesture just now—and the soft bump on her—

“Just who the _bloody fuck_ did you think you are?!” everyone within earshot stopped when they heard the cuss. There stood the dancer, with fire burning in her eyes and seething murder intent flowing out of her fibers like a hidden dagger under deep velvet bolt. “I’m putting an act for not being like other girls? What is that supposed to mean?! I made it clear that I was just dancing here, and as for these other girls you mentioned—listen, _old filth,_ you can’t consume something and talk shit about it at the same time!” The furious, insulted dancer picked up three banknotes collapsing downwards. Three banknotes the persistent man had slapped on her bottom like she was an auction material.

“What did you call me?” initially too stunned to respond, the man finally gained control. And if the dancer was furious, he was _fuming_ with rage. “How dare you, little rat—“

“Yes. Call me that. Actually, call me whatever you like, who cares?! You said that because oh, how dare a woman conveyed she had no wish to have sex with you, is that not it?!” Lene slapped the banknotes back against the man’s lips. “Why don’t you bed these while you are at it?!”

“You—“

“I did not even say you could touch me!” her voice broke in her throat. “How dare you lay a finger on me—and especially—there.” Just then she threw a drink in his face. Lene had enough. Some days holding felt so difficult. Some days, somehow merely wanting to exist in peace was a hard task. And as if she was not already tired enough tonight. She was reminded of her past ever-so bluntly with the woman who occupied the front table. If it was already hard enough to remind herself she was not supposed to have an emotion while she was being a dancer, especially now that the pair was crystal clear in her line of sight… the sudden panic of a sick Maeve because she valued the barmaid like an older sibling and a confidante she never had… having to swallow her pride by talking to people asking blunt, sudden questions if they ever heard of Silvia, the Blossom of the Battlefield…

All she asked was a shred of humanity to spare for the little dignity left in her.

“You wild cat,” the man muttered under his breath. And Lene regretted it. She regretted it so much that all she wanted to do was bolting out of there, vanishing from people’s mind even if only for a day. She always knew. She should have known. The bloodthirsty eyes which only pressed further and further when she decided to stand up instead of retreating and making herself invisible—the _violent_ eyes. The…

Lene gasped. If it was not for her recent sword training to get used to reflexes...

He dared to lunge at her.

It was almost lost in her mind that she barely registered what he just did. He lunged at her because she called him out for non-consensually touching her? Because she dared to say no for not wanting some unsavory man’s palm squeezing her butt cheeks? For—

“You should have thanked me for these, you _bitch_ ,” he spat, kicking the banknotes that they flew onto her knees. “The fuck are you even doing here thinking you can talk like a motherfucking princess to me? You’re only a street rat like me. The gall you have there to put this act as if you have more to offer than those your parents gave you!” he rudely gestured at her body. “Exactly how you got here in the first place, hmmm? Stop being so posh like that. We are all filth here, you know?!”

“We? No. You!” she reached for another drink, but he caught the glass before she could swing it. Lene was not sure what hurt more—the throbbing pain on her right cheekbone she received when he hit her, or all the cruel things he told her. … Well, even if she was confident enough that her appearance was pleasing, yet—

She recalled rainy lands which witnessed fresh blood drips as she practiced her moves, over and over again. She vaguely recalled how seamless Silvia’s movements were; soothing like the breeze, powerful like waterfall. And there she was, age twelve, crying over legs which still refused to do a perfect split, with breasts which began to ache as she approached puberty. How, at sixteen, she started seeing how her body grew and changed, and now at eighteen and a half sometimes she wished she would have been born with a face as plain and uninteresting as a bread loaf.

Cusses were thrown at her, and as people who started hearing commotion began to gather to see what happened, Lene slid away, making her escape back into the kitchen. Her lungs felt like exploding with each of her steps—with the contained anger, sadness, and sudden exhaustion for being there for too long. For enduring similar things again and again. For holding everything together.

“So, is Sir Ares... hey, what happened?” Adela quickly changed subject, sheepishly breaking away from the intimate moment she shared with a grinning Maeve who was lacing her blouse back. Both women saw Lene sweating, and the look in the dancer’s eyes was akin to someone who just witnessed a murder.

Lene shook her head. She’d just do that. She felt if she tried to speak, then everything would break. And she could not have it there. Not—

“You did not find him?” Maeve looked at her. The dancer was aware of that look—the older sister’s silent warning that the more she tried to hide, the more likely it was for the sister to find out.

“Mmm,” she hummed, shaking her head once again. As if a ghost stole her tongue and words tasted like sand… “If he…“—she inhaled softly so the two bar workers did not suspect her—“… comes, he will go here as asked. Just… just ask him to take you home. I am confident enough he will not refuse.”

“I don’t feel like asking him right away. After all, you are the one who acquainted with him,” Maeve gave a thought. “I mean, even if he was as kind as you informed us, he is still…”

Lene heard another sound. When the other two got distracted, she seized her chance. “Oops. Must go. Left something at the backstage.”

She bolted from the kitchen’s back entrance instead of using the front one which led to the dining area. That route took her back to the stage, now with the curtains drawn and her musician friends waiting. Lene slapped her forehead, forgetting the refreshments she promised them. But whatever. She would be heading to the backstage from the protective layer of those drawn curtains. And then…

“Listen, don’t toy with me, pretty boy!! I’m in a foul mood now, move it or I beat you to a pulp!”

“He is still… picking a fight?” Lene whispered even before the musicians could say anything on her arrival.

“Who? Your Black Knight?”

“… Black Knight?” she peeked again, clutching the curtain. Somehow she wanted to wrap it over her body. Somehow she wanted to sling it over her head where that rough touch landed. At the same time she felt sour because he was the first people accused of starting a trouble.

“… I just got here? You are the one nearly slamming the door shut at my face.” Lene and the musicians could hear a reply. That deep voice with flat tone—the blunt reply—and… ‘pretty boy’?

“Well too bad it did not break your nose!”

Lene clutched the curtain tighter when the same man as before lunged at… Ares.

… Yes, it was him.  

Clad in his trademark black clothing and boots as usual, the Black Knight stared dumbfounded at the threshold. His golden mane shone under the moonlight outside, with candles and lanterns inside the bar creating a refraction of light that his hair looked so luminous the moment his face peeked in.

Somehow Lene felt her chest tightened. This ‘holding and enduring’ game probably ended a long time ago since he became acquainted with her. Perhaps she had been too comfortable with it. Perhaps her friends noticed it. And what happened just now—when again, she could not fight back or defend—

“Goddammit, move it! If I can’t beat that little ungrateful bitch then you will do finely.”

“You seem to have a woman problem,” Lene watched Ares moving to evade the incoming punch. And instead of dodging, the warrior positioned himself closer that he got into the man’s periphery, placing a knuckle over the other man’s dominant arm which was used to throw a punch in order to block further movement. Swift strike followed shortly as a left-handed jab smoothly landed on the man’s face, leaving some blood drip and chapped lips as a testament of his prowess. “And by that of course I mean you are the problem. If you want to break my nose, at least _try,_ asshole,” everyone could hear the Black Knight huffing as he gently closed the door with the troublemaker outside.

And it was so Ares of an Ares to react like that. No wasted movements for he responded to an attack like a natural predator. As if his eyes scanned everything the moment something approached him and neutralized the threat effectively that he did not need a second strike unless he was treated to the possibility of an incoming second strike.

Yet despite all this comparison of him to a hunting lion, the Black Knight merely left a mark like a graded lesson than enjoying his status as a powerful predator by giddily decorating the threshold with a corpse.

Some people awkwardly moved away from him. Some others cheered. But the subject of either adoration or condemnation himself merely stared blankly before walking up to the counter to ask for a cup of cider.

… And as always, he never failed to start it with a please and end it with a thank you.

“Lene asked you to look for her at the kitchen,” the barkeep said. “If only you were earlier, you might have caught her around here because she lingered to look for you.”

Lene hastily moved away from the curtain when he saw Ares reflexively looked around the moment her name was brought up into the conversation. Releasing the fabric she had been clutching, she steered further away from the stage, dragging her emotionally drained, exhausted feet to the backstage.

“… Catching her? I’m not a bandit, Uncle.”

She could guess Ares was half-joking and half-serious in his response to the barkeep, considering how innocent and blunt he was at times. But…

Lene tumbled on her paces. Today felt heavy. Her chest felt heavy.  

Ares put down the glass, making steady paces to the kitchen. It was supposed to be more public compared to the backstage reserved only for specific people, yet there he was, looking visibly doubtful the more he got closer to the kitchen.

“This is Ares. Can I come in?”

Lene watched him taking a step back, announcing his arrival bluntly to make sure if he was indeed wanted where he was said to be. And the warrior even fucking knocked politely like he was just being invited to a house or a guest chamber.

“… Oh, sorry. Good evening, of course.”

And that was supposed to be the man who left a pile of dead bodies people marked for him in his contracts. That was supposed to be one titled as the Black Knight. The inheritor of a so-called demon sword which could be sated only by blood. And that was—

Lene touched her face. Suddenly her cheekbone felt hurting again, giving her a throbbing pain.

* * *

 

“Lacking power,” he commented, parrying a blow she launched. “Be more focused. Do not grip the hilt too tensely, and remember to swing with your shoulders and not your arms.”

She did not say anything, answering him with a motion of withdrawing three steps further before making a ready stance again. When he nodded to signal her to attack, she rushed forward. First strike was swung from the front, and when he parried it, she quickly switched position, trying to push a blow from his left side. However he recovered quickly, flipping to the side that her blade met the sheath of Mystletainn when it was only halfway being lunged at him.

The parrying motion cast her aside.

“You are still not focused,” he commented again, studying her expression, two meters away from him.

“How?” she asked, panting.

“Wild swings will not take down anyone,” he explained. “They are powerful, but empty.”

“Empty you said? I don’t understand. But then again, there are many things I do not in this world.”

He caught her sarcastic bitter tone, and he wondered if something happened the day prior. It was already wild, even for him, _the Black Knight_ —to be welcomed by an accidental sour-mood asshole who seemed to be eager to smack anyone who had the gall to exist in the same room as he did. Even the random fights which usually involved him so far had a purpose, and that his opponents did knowingly look for him. The asshole whose lips he ruined seemed to just need a punching bag.

Even weirder for Ares that he only found the voluptuous barmaid and the calm cook in the kitchen, without her. He did not reject when the cook asked if he could take the barmaid home… _ah, yes, Maeve,_ he recalled the woman who casually referred to him as handsome devil, for having a throbbing migraine.

If it was up to him, he wanted to protest. First, how was a devil handsome again? It was still a devil.

“I will show you,” he said, pointing at the tree branch near them. The advantage of training by the river—their river—was that there would not be only a place to rest, for the grass was lush and the scenery beautiful. _There would be things to hit too_ —this one, he thought with a smirk.

“Yes, please.”

Ares glanced at her. Her tone was not bitter, neither was it sarcastic. So, perhaps she was only tired? “Lend me your sword.”

“… My… sword?”

He nodded. He could read doubt spelled crystal clear on her face when she handed him the sword. For a moment he thought she was just reluctant because it was a memento from her mother, but the second glance he stole seemed to dispel the idea, for she was paying attention obediently as if for a while she forgot that her sword was also a weapon like other swords because… it was a _sword_ , after all _._ “This one is wild,” he made some reckless swing with the sword he borrowed. “Everything has its due. I’m not a magistrate, alchemist, or whatever it is a smart person with fancy words is called. But what I mean is once you break through a something’s protective layer, you destroy its capability to hold on or absorb damage. Like…”

He swung again. Wildly, carelessly at one of the larger tree branches he saw first-hand. Her sword simply bumped against the branch, leaving a cut but not enough to tear it down. “See?”

She nodded.

“And then you focus,” he went on flatly, fixing the way he griped the sword so that the hilt felt steady in his hands. He twisted a bit so that the blade part protruded better instead of the awkward position he set as an example prior. “Generate your power from your shoulder blades as I told you when I started training you because it gives you a steadier position.”

She blinked. Her sword in his hand had turned into a deadly weapon, something she never pictured before. This sword leaned against the wall near her bed. The sword her mother left with her, an epitome of parenthood where it was supposed to give her the safe and tranquil feeling like a mother’s… embrace.

And yet—

The branch fell to the ground.

“Your sword did that,” he held the branch to her as if assuring her it was not a dream. “My point is, even your sword _can_ do what Mystletainn commonly does. Such capability is not mine alone. You can too.”

_Ah…_

“In other words, we have to… withstand the target’s damage line or whatever it is called because… we destroy it by overpower it, correct? And that is how you… wound your opponent? Because your cuts are sharper and more powerful than the skin’s potential to contain it.”

“Pretty much,” he responded. “… I wish I did not have to tell you that, but…”

“… But that is the truth, isn’t it,” she whispered.

He nodded. “And if you polish the blade to sharpen it—”

“… Ares, I never…” her words trailed like a dragged overloading cart. “… and I do not know how.”

“I understand,” his reply was soft. “Perhaps better that way.”

“Why, because I’m so helpless that you find it funny to teach me fight?”

He noted how the bitterness in her voice returned. “No?” he spoke, frowning. “You asked me to teach you how to wield the sword your mother left you. You made it clear that you despised the fighting, you disliked blood, and I recalled you could not stand the sight or smell of it. I cannot ask you more than I already did—preparing you how to take another’s life if needed be. Which is everything you hate.”

_The blunt, blunt but considerate and ever-kind Ares._

“… Hnnn.”

“Hn.”

“You copied me,” she accused.

“I did,” he smirked.

“Reason being?”

“Because you sound alright now. Before this you appeared gloomy. There has to be a reason why the sword did not hit,” he rained a light chuckle on her.

“Is that so?” she pinched his nose, enjoying his startled expression. “It could be because I’m not skilled.”

“Oh yes, it could be,” he shrugged, but his gaze signaled he was ready to duel her wits. “But it would not be the case if you did not make significant improvements and that out of twenty five swings I asked of you, at least three-quarter of them were passable. Either it did not hit well but the form was great, or the other way around. But usually they were not mindless.”

“… Really?”

“Hnnn?” he copied her tone again and chuckled. “I don’t think someone so eager to ask for lessons from me even after knowing who I am… will let her swings miss so easily.”

“Perhaps because you enjoy seeing women kicking ass,” she accused playfully.

“I’m a simple man,” Ares returned her playful line with a deferring manner he mustered on purpose. “… Now if you pardon me a bit, Lene.“

“Ah? Oh—“ she watched as he took a wild leaf from the top of her head.

“Must be when I cut that branch. I’m sorry.”

Lene studied Ares. He had an apologetic, sheepish smile on his face. He appeared so innocent when he did that, yet truly sincere as if he deliberately ruined her hair himself. Never mind that he cut it just to show her how to wield a sword better— and more importantly, doing that with her sword to lift up her spirit. And the apology he uttered plainly, no ifs, no buts—

Lene let her fringes swayed around, concealing the sudden feeling of being overloaded which started to feel like bile in her throat. What Ares did hardly qualify as a mistake, yet there he was, unhesitatingly, undoubtedly apologizing to her. This strong warrior with an alias as gruesome as his mercenary career was ever mindful even when he was training her, and never once did he lay a finger on her .…

“Did I startle you?” Ares asked. “There was a colorful bug on this leaf. Are you okay with insects?”

Lene blinked. Ares’ clasped palm was before her, and she could see that sincere trait of him returned as he arched his back to approach her closer. … And he asked. He always asked... “Yes. It’s fine with me,” she maintained a calm voice. Somehow his little act of decency felt touching…

Ares looked pensive for a moment, as if he was distracted. He looked like he was about “Alright, here goes…”

“Oh, it flies at me!” Lene gasped out of reflex.

“… My father would be ashamed of me,” Ares muttered heavily. “Hold still… ah, it’s on your hair.”

“It’s alright!” she cheerfully squeezed his arm. “Actually, I should be thanking you…”

“I haven’t dragged its insolent ass off you yet, that can wait,” Ares replied, dead serious this time. “I’ll move closer. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she breathed. Somehow it was even harder to concentrate or even merely look at him when his face was that close. His eyes were alert, and admittedly Lene found herself… hard to inhale when he looked at her with such gaze somehow. He did not have to inform her to hold still; she would not be able to move even if he did not say it. Why was there this flaring sensation over her cheeks just because this handsome devil— _damn Maeve for setting a catchphrase_ , she noted in silence—looked at her intensely like that?

And he asked again. This handsome devil also always asked—

Ares’ hand moved forward, swiftly catching the bug. He frowned when he found the dancer reflexively closed her eyes because her gesture was akin to shrinking herself. He was already concerned when he thought he spot a bruise mark on her cheekbone when he approached closer to show her the insect.  He never questioned whether or not she wore makeup or decorated her face in any way—even _he_ knew it would be rude. But that mark… of course he could recognize injuries. And her body language just now…

He was so distracted by his own thoughts that he accidentally touched her instead. Lene opened her eyes, wincing—then quickly made a small gesture to cover her mouth as if she forgot she was not supposed to do that. And this time he was not willing to ignore it.

“Was it gone?”

Ares looked at her. She was all smiley-cheery, which only made him feel uneasy. “… Yes. Caught it.”

“Release it?”

“You don’t need to ask. Sure,” he opened his palm, letting the insect go free.

Lene sighed. At least now she could breathe again since his face was not as close as prior. “Um… Ares, about the training today…”

“Yes?”

 _Why did he respond so fast?_ “I was wondering if you could…”

“Stop?”

“H-huh? No. I mean—can you… can you teach me how to throw a punch?”

“Gods, for a moment there I thought I have accidentally hurt you. Wait—punch?“

“No, _you_ wait—you thought—you thought you _what_?” she blinked.

“Because of that mark—“ Ares’ halted his reply. Should he point it out? “Do tell. Did I, or did I not?”

“Sure you did not,” she replied earnestly. Ares studied her again. She did not flinch. She did not look like having to spare some seconds to think what to say when she replied him.

“Truly?”

“Of course!” her cheerful demeanor was back. “So, teach me how to punch people? Come on. You said you liked seeing women who kick ass!”

Ares could only nod, as his thoughts wandered elsewhere. “Make a punch,” he commanded.

“Aye, Sir,” she balled her fist. “Like this?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Firstly, do not insert your thumb into your fist like that. If you hard-punch something… someone that way, you can break your bones.” Then he gently fixed her fingers and bettered her fist. Now her four fingers were clasped and the thumb crossed over them.

“Duly noted.”

 _Why is she so eager about this?_ Ares studied her again. The lady who had qualms about spilling blood with a sword wanted to know how to spill blood with her bare hands? “Your sword grip will also be more powerful if you use a proper balled fist to wield it. If you must grapple an opponent and want to lock joints, sometimes you can let the thumb straight and not have it barricading the other four fingers. This position is known as a monkey grip,” he continued, still trying to find a way to assess her situation.

“Mmm. How do I test it?” the dancer pondered her own fist.

“Punch me,” Ares could not resist smirking. She looked at her own balled fist like it was a curious, exotic object. _She truly is holding everything there, huh?_

“Punch… you?”

“Yes. Try my shoulder,” he reiterated. “You really just started, so I want to gauge your range too. On the other hand, I fear lending you my training gear can be dangerous.”

She lunged, and Ares’ thoughts danced again. Why did she close her eyes? She was the one throwing a punch. Why did she act like her life depended on it? Even when he made her to unsheathe her own sword and swing it at him, she was not so anxious—if anything, her concerns more stemmed from the fact that she was holding a sharp object, a weapon that could kill.

And this was just a fist. Well, for now. After all a beginner’s fist was not deadly.

Her fist landed on his shoulder.

Lene watched. Ares did not budge. He did not even flinch. She could not even shake him. If anything, it was the sturdiness of his trained shoulder which felt like a living wall to her… and his weight generated this impact which pushed her back when her fist collided with his body. Perhaps she lunged awkwardly, but his shoulder pushed her fist back that her wrist jolted.

Suddenly she had… creative, unpleasant thoughts. How easy it would be for Ares to overpower her if he truly got serious. If he was to fight her back and she wondered how many seconds he would need to make her land on the ground. And if someone like him was to force her—

Of course, not Ares. Neither ‘someone like him’. But someone with strength. Someone with… power.

Yesterday’s incident flashed again in her mind. The cusses thrown at her. The helplessness. The pain she felt the moment that swine laid a finger—no, _balled fist_ —on her face.

And what if this happened somewhere else? Even if people were to call her hysterical, some could testify that he hit her. That if she had the power to defend herself, she would not bolt out like a hunted prey. What if it happened somewhere else? Where nobody saw, where there were no drinks to throw or glass to break over his head if she really had to? What if…

“If you want to throw a punch, your dominant hand is usually in the similar position with your dominant leg,” Ares explained again. “Just like swinging a sword, lunge with your shoulder, not your arm. You can feel it yourself—if your arm shakes when you throw a punch, you have not done it as it should be. And just like swinging a sword, your punch will be more powerful this way.”

“So that’s… that’s how you train! No wonder you are so strong, and…”

Her voice died prematurely in her throat. Either a ghost stole her tongue again or her throat had turned into velvet again. Suddenly she felt so, so, useless, helpless, weak—

“The simplest way to test your strength and improve it is by crumpling some papers into a solid paper ball. Try squeezing it multiple times. The more solid you shape it with your fist, the stronger it is. That way you can compare the paper balls you make to see if you improve,” Ares still relayed his lessons like an instructor, but when she stopped midway, he was sure enough that something was not right. “… And put your non-dominant hand under your eyes. Your dominant hand should be in-line with your nose.”

“I—“ her voice croaked, “I understand.”

“Try doing these basic drills first. I’ll get to punching types later,” he softened his tone. Did he appear intimidating or way too ardent that he spoke to her like an instructor grilling a fresh meat there? What should he do next? If he turned her down, she would feel disrespected. He would never—but if she did not look certain about what she asked for…

“The basic is like this,” he made a stance. “I start with my dominant hand,” he lunged with his right fist, “and then I follow up—“ his left hand joined in like a butterfly, “and I can finish him like…” this time his right fist moved again, bringing concussion in what looked like a convex angle from the sides.

“Your villain is always a he,” she pointed out, chuckling.

“Oops,” he laughed along. “There are lady warriors too, you know, even those who choose to be a mercenary like me. But honestly somehow I just can’t visualize hitting a woman like that, am I strange?”

“No! Gods—no. I mean… no, of course not.”

 _Now she yells?_ “Your voice is unsteady,” he finally let it out. Let… _some_ of his concerns out, at least.

“Really?” Lene responded. “I don’t feel any difference…”

“No, no, your voice is fine. It’s just…” Ares began to ruffle his own hair. How should he speak up? “I hope you are not unwell. The ladies could not find you when I was about to take your friend home.”

“Maeve and Adela looked for me?”

He nodded. “Barmaid is unwell. Yesterday she asked me to tell the barkeep she could not come in today.”

“Poor Maeve,” Lene muttered. “It happened yesterday. Since it is past now, perhaps…”

“What happened yesterday?”

“Uh—“ she nearly bit her own tongue there when he asked. “I mean. I suppose I can help… waitressing.”

“Not dancing today?”

She shook her head. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even feel like dancing today…”

“Is that so?”

“Hnnn~? Sometimes it’s fun to take a break, don’t you think, Golden Kitty?” Lene quickly retorted to mess with the warrior’s mane again. “And I can’t imagine how busy it will get without her. Yes, I’ll help~!”

_And then I’ll be lingering around, never to stay long at one exact table. I cannot be… caught._

“You always hop around to help, don’t you, rabbit?”

“What… do you mean?” she became wary at an instant. Ares’ eyes looked…

He shook his head. “This will not do.”

“What… will not do?”

Ares sighed. And light died instantly in Lene’s eyes.

“Is that because of me?” she grabbed his sleeve. “Ah! Could it be that you are frustrated training me?”

“… No? Why?” Ares wanted to mess with his own hair again—now that she said he was frustrated… well he was _now,_ but not for the reason she mentioned!

“Because I’m so weak, is that right?” she balled her fist again, lunging at him. He still did not budge. And again she secretly cussed herself for forgetting all his explanation in regards to forming a proper fist because that untrained movement only sent jolting pain to her wrist like before.

“You are new in this and never learned to fight before. Understandable.”

“… Because I can’t even… even shake you as I—“ she lunged at him again.

_Stop it. I am reasonable. I hold. I endure. Why now—and why did I punch him instead—_

“Here, let us try again,” he fixed her form, moving her fist that it hammered his shoulder. “… There. I can feel that it is sturdier. If you are serious about this, we can add some strength training in the drill.”

“But you are still not moved.”

“I will after some time,” he replied in a gallant manner.

“I can’t wait ‘after some time’,” she said, feeling like everything she tried to contain was about to break. _Hold it, you silly girl. Hold it. Keep it contained, keep it sealed and tight—_ “And if you were to get serious, I know I can’t—“ her voice turned into a whisper, “… win. I can’t fight you back. I can only—hold it.”

“… Just what is this are you talking about?!”

Lene made a soft squeal. Ares’ sharp, thunderous tone startled her as much as his expression did. His eyebrows dove so deep that they looked like a pair of a bald eagle’s wings ready to pounce a prey. He looked really displeased, but on top of that he looked…

_Heartbroken?_

“If it is about fairness, I thought we already settled it back then,” Ares sighed again, seating himself on the grass. “What do you mean, you cannot win against me? What is this about fighting me back, Lene?!”

“Is that not the truth, though?” she did not want to sound embittered, but…

“That is not what I meant,” he cut in, growling as his hand finally ruffled his own mane. _“Fuck.”_

“Ares, I…”

“… I was wondering,” he spoke in a low, regretful tone. “… if I had failed minding myself in regards to you that I… threatened you in a way or another. Fuck it, in any way!”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not a—“ his voice was heavy. Very heavy.

“No! Gods, _we_ know that you are not that kind of man!” she sealed his lips with her index finger.

“As much as I believe myself that is not the case, what I think will not matter at all if I neglect your voice or situation,” his reply was… sad. “And if that is the case, then I do not deserve this sword.”

“Ares—“

“I can convince myself that I behave decently,” he continued, “but what I think still will not compare to what you have to say about it. What I meant is whether I’ve ever wronged you… as a man.” His tone was even more sorrowful than before, as if remorse hanged on to every word he mustered. “… So have I, Lene, now that you have all these scenarios imagined and escape plans devised?”

She paused, could not believe her ears. Ares thought that he… and he worried so much for the possibility of him unknowingly mistreating her? Perhaps she should just tell him everything. But why was it so hard? She was not the aggressor in the situation, but somehow something simple as ‘someone punched me yesterday and that pretty traumatized me’ was hard to confess. “… No,” was the final answer she could muster. Now she understood. And probably a bit too late even if she was to think such herself. That enduring was tiring. That if you experienced some kind of abuse—

_Abuse._

“Do not say that just to appease me.”

She noticed the changes in his demeanor. His tone softened, and the way he replied her was nothing but gentle this time. She watched him taking a step back, setting aside Mystletainn as he did so. On the ground. Not leaned against his shoulder as the blade’s typical position would be when he was seated. Not returning it to clutch on his belt where he could unsheathe it in mere seconds.

“You think someone who does this again and again is afraid of you?” she tried lightening the situation by yanking his mullet. “If you are concerned, shall we continue training?”

Ares studied her face again. Just how many protective layers she had there? No, he did not mean it to call her fake or something similar. He wondered what it would take to pry her story out of her silence. He recalled the night she took care of him when the seasonal cold struck him, and now that he deduced she was distraught, he wanted to repay her by giving the comfort she needed. And he pictured Eldigan angrily rolling in the grave because a Nordion bloodline failed to be respectful to ladies.

And just then he got an idea.

“Very well. Let’s train,” he seized his chance. He did not want to pry, but he could not stay still knowing she was troubled. He told her he was a simple man. He communicated with his sword better than his words ever could. Usually it only took a few sword strikes to reach out to another person, as his hard life testified. And damn him even more if he accidentally disrespected her for stopping the training while she was drowning in her… doubts or whatever—which he determined to find out, because he sensed it would only make the matter worse as if he did confirm she was so useless and weak.

Ares’ thoughts danced again as he got up, still leaving Mystletainn on the ground. Did he appear like someone who worshipped might that it… terrified her? Perhaps those kill counts made a phantom demon that even his shadow reeked the smell of blood. And why was she so adamant at not wanting to appear weak? Had he made her feel like she had to catch up with him, or otherwise he did not think her valuable? Was she too nice to just tell him that perhaps he had treated her like a toy or amusement so far? But that was hardly the case—if anything, it was she who teased him a lot, and he had to find himself resisting the urge to smile each time she bluntly told him she vowed to make him ‘cuter’.

It was with Lene that he began to realize how Spartan his life had been. The masculine, machismo—for the lack of better description—routines he did everyday, the rough unforgiving warrior culture Javarro subjected him until his adulthood like this. And even back then in Nordion they did prepare him to absorb all the best chivalric education Agustria could offer. Just like his father—a lion was not a symbol of a cute domestic animal or akin to a big cat like Lene teased him about. A lion was a ferocious warrior; a leader of his realm. And Nordion lions inherited a demon sword which thirsted for the blood of men.

“Alright!”  

Her smile took him off guard. It was sincere, it was _sweet_ —he averted his eyes from her—and she did not wince. Nor did she flinch. And he prayed he truly was not the source of her distress…

“Lene, I propose a challenge,” he started, hoping she took it. She was defiant. She was as unyielding as he was. And if it took challenges to lift up her spirit, then he was a stubborn person too.

“A… challenge?” she asked in an anticipating manner.

“Yes. If you can catch me on the nose, you win. Ask anything of me!” he mustered a smirk so she did not see that by now he firmly believed something was amiss. ”You have three chances. Any method is fine.”

“… Anything?” her eyes widened. “But… why?”

“The nose is vulnerable because the bone there is softer, weaker that it makes a fine target. Not to mention the shape,” he responded simply. “And yes, anything. Even with a stone.”

“Um, no. That will be too harsh, even if it is you.”

 _This girl,_ Ares resisted the urge to purse his lips… into a smile. “Alright then, Miss,” he replied lightly. “And you win even if you only manage to touch me for once out of those three chances.”

“Does this mean I get to braid your hair again?” her eyes glinted.

That mischievous streak did not escape the Black Knight. “If that is what you truly want.”

“And use my soft ribbons for that?”

“Even the pink one.”

“Even the pink one!” she sighed, and Ares had to restrain himself from smiling when hearing that.

“So, what are you waiting for?” the Black Knight shrugged, stretching his arms to signal her to come.

“Ah—okay! Catch these fists before they catch you!” she laughed, cracking her knuckles. “I guess if one wants something so badly, then one has to be prepared to do the things they never before…”

“Agreed,” he pursed his lips. “So try.”

She looked doubtful, but all her courage gathered the moment she balled her fists. It took a bit while for her to stand up with a swordfighting stance because she kept inspecting her fists to see if she balled them right just as he taught her. Perhaps Ares meant to inaugurate her again the way he did with the sword. Since she had expressed to him that she ‘could not’ punch, perhaps…

… Well, anyone could punch. What she wanted was to punch and _succeed._

Lene stood before Ares. Only an arm length separated them now. Close enough for her to try attacking him, and he still did not move from where he stood as if reassured his invitation to attack him. She inhaled. “Still, this feels different than trying to wield a sword…”

“I am not hitting back,” his voice was soft and comforting. “So by all means, come.”

“For the pink braid,” she muttered in an endearing honest manner, and at an instant he wished her first try would succeed so he did not have to smile… in the same manner.

She balled her first harder this time and lunged at him. However Ares did not parry, nor did he seize the arm—instead, he dodged it. He let her fist lunging close enough to its target as he also wanted to gauge how adept she was. He could see her footing lose balance as her upper body swayed forward to dart the punch. When her fist was close enough to reach his face, he simply stepped aside to evade it.

Lene retreated immediately. Her first chance ended up in a failure. Two more left, and she stopped to try reading what Ares would do next. The warrior had a firm look on his face, and his piercing stare forced her to look at him back.

“Do not retreat while leaving yourself open,” he purposefully mustered a tight voice.

_Ares did try building up me courage just like how he helped me with the sword then…_

Lene tried again. She had two hands, so why did not she just use them? So there she did. She threw another attack with her right hand. When Ares simply tilted his head to save his nose in time, she swung her left hand, trying to catch him off guard with the back of her hand.

“Great,” he commented, blocking the attack by catching her fist.

“You mean it?”

“Of course!” he responded. “Next time use your dominant hand to land the second blow. If you aim to punch hard and you use the back of your hand like that, you will need a steadier, stronger strike.”

“… Oh, gods. You made it sound like I am not so bad,” she whispered.

“The _hell_ are you talking about? I am so proud of you,” he grinned. “Did that hurt?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Ares, you never.”

“You mean it?”

“Now you copied me again,” she stuck her tongue at him.

“Or maybe because I’m serious about it.”

… Ah, a short visit to memory lane. How as a little boy the gardener’s son broke his heart by dubbing him Lord Destroyer when they played tag. When it was his turn to chase his playmate and made the other boy kiss the ground because apparently he had grabbed the collar too tight that he nearly choked his gardener’s son that way. Confused and hurt, that night his father unrevealed a big secret to him—of bloodline and inheritance, and a supposed folk hero called Hezul who not only passed down the blood to his family but strength. Hezul’s trait began to grow noticeably as he grew up under Javarro’s guardianship. The extra damages he did when he was still treading his way with the art of combat. When his anger burst almost left a hollow dent at the wall. His notorious reputation and infamous alias did not help either. He had always been too aware everything, and it only fueled him to try being in control in nearly anything he could get himself on. And while he suspected it might be patronizing and disrespectful to call Lene delicate, just being the only warrior between the two of them alone was enough for him to even be more vigilant of this trait which he inherited by blood.

“H-huh? Ares…”

“Hmmm?”

“Don’t hum with a deep husky voice like that, it’s war crime!”

“… What?”

“N-never mind,” Lene chuckled awkwardly. No way she would tell him that it was actually… nice.

“Last chance,” he grinned again. “Come, Lene. Do you want to braid me or not?”

“Teaser,” Lene huffed. “Alright~! Grin while you still can!”

“Defeat me and my hair is yours,” he released her fist he caught, smirking now that he purposefully evaded her attempt trying to yank his mullet.

Lene got back in the position. Last chance to basically do whatever she pleased to the usually-guarded Ares who allegedly had a personal feud against all the cute things in the world. Perhaps if she won, she would not just stop with making his hair into a cute braid. Perhaps she could drag his reluctant ass to a dessert shop and enjoyed his bewildered expression when they put some nice, pastel-colored parfait before his eyes. Perhaps she would drag Ares to a textile shop, sadistically torturing him with all the vibrant as well as soft cute colors emanating from various fabrics all over Jugdral.

… Somewhere safe, a place where she would stall him to enjoy his misery to forget about yesterday.

Lene swung again, faster and agile this time. Ares looked serious, his eyes narrowed with a manner akin to scanning a fighting ground. Ares was tall—probably he towered over her by a head difference, or a foot on paper. If it was harder to get at him from the front, then perhaps, with an uppercut…

A flock of blond hair billowed by the time the Black Knight arched backwards to evade the incoming strike. He was about to move sideways so her fist would only catch wind, when…

“… A stone?“

“Yes—“

“Waaah!”

“Watch out! Ah—”

_THUD._

Lene panted. She groaned, opening her eyes to check if she hurt herself after falling. Another surprise awaited her when she realized she landed on him, with her knuckle hit his nose as he was lying down in an awkward spread eagle position. “Gosh. Ares?!” she shouted, striking his face gently because he made a gasping sound when they both fell to the ground.

“… I lost, huh?” he muttered. “Are you hurt? Why are you so panicked?” he let out a soft groan.

“I saw that stone and I pulled you in because I thought you might slip when trying to dodge my fist,” she murmured, making a motion to slide off him as she threw her hair behind her shoulder.

“I saw it too. I thought you might sprain your ankles if…” his voice died at an instant upon seeing their predicament. She was on him like some butter spread over a sandwich loaf. His arm encircled her waist, and her hair was disheveled, spraying over his chest. “… M-my apologies!! Hezul be damned this time.”

They did not say anything but lying next to each other for the next ten minutes.

“… Ares,” she finally called softly from the side.

“Ah—yes?”

He sounded so distracted, confused, if not as if he just tried to split himself in twain just so he could punch the other half. It did not escape her that he was so flustered having her land on top of him like that, although technically they were just unlucky considering these were two unyielding people who just unyieldingly tried to save each other. … Neither did his hasty flustered apology.

And then Lene lost it. She giggled. She giggled so sweetly and sincerely at the same time, rendering him even more awkward. “… You are so cute!”

“Pardon?” he grunted. “Pardon… ah, right. I beg your pardon. I really did not mean to touch you like that. Sorry for my carelessness. I meant to stop you before you fell, but...”

“I know,” she muttered. “Actually, you were pretty alert, weren’t you…”

“Alert?” Ares assumed a sitting position, giving his hand to her so she could pick herself up. “Did you sprain your ankles there? Or did you bump into my armor?”

“No,” Lene’s voice grew fainter. “You kept apologizing… for… engaging me. The contacts—the touches, the approaches—the things that…”

_… people casually regard as non-existent that I’m merely an object to them._

“Lene?”

“It is the stone that got you, not me,” she said, gathering her hair into a clump to swiftly make a ponytail again. “Hnnn. You did not say what happened if I lost, Ares! Now that I did, what do you need from me?”

Ares looked at her. What a blessing in disguise that stone was. Could it be sacred and cursed at the same time? It helped her reaching his nose, but it doomed him. Yet he would not be having this chance—despite the predicament—if the little incident did not happen. “… Some answers, if you please.”

“Answers?” she eyed him curiously, fixing her sitting position that her knees were comfortably set to the side in a graceful sidesaddle pose while her dress billowed as she moved. Ares relayed his response in a gentle tone, so she clasped her hands together in front of her, waiting.

His hand motioned forward, and she found herself automatically held her breath as her head bowed a bit. With her eyes half-opened, she caught a glimpse of his figure shaking his head as he withdrew his hand from her side.

“That one just now.”

“Is there another… bug in my hair?”

“Did it happen yesterday?” he asked, even gentler this time.

“What are you…” she looked at him, still flummoxed. But not for a long time when she followed where his finger pointed—his own cheekbone. “… Oh,” she squeaked a response, weakly clasped her hand against her mouth. Gone was her composure as she tried to salvage a broken mask; a burning protective layer—whatever the right metaphor would be. She had been holding everything since yesterday… and even touching where it stung to ease the pain sent her another unpleasant hollow feeling as she stood before her mirror to apply some ice where it bruised. And it had to be Ares—the very person she prayed to find about it last. It was in his presence that she somehow felt embarrassed to appear weak, although if she was to be perfectly honest, it was before his presence that she did feel comfortable to say whatever her sharp mind and tongue gladly would.  

“It’s alright,” he gently clasped on her shoulders when she made a gesture trying to hide away.

“Mmm.” And just like before, the same ghost stole her tongue again. Actually… no, she was just too tired to run away this time. And for some reason, she could not. Not from him. Perhaps she did not really want to, because there was this little faithful voice in the corner of her heart which believed that he would be there, all understanding and kind without having to make her feel undignified. About her life. Her dancing. And the lemonades life threw at her, which she squeezed all over her wounds to spite Life by showing she would take and hold everything like a warrior. Skilled or unskilled.

“Let me see that,” Ares tilted her chin with his finger. “Please allow me.”

She shook her head again, her hand still clasped against her mouth even though by now she had no idea what it was for. She could barely speak at this point, with her emotions trying to overwhelm each other somewhere deep in her heart—and all the gentleness he treated her with, something felt totally foreign to her just a day prior. People called him names, and yet… this notorious one was the one who never failed to treat her with courtesy.

Yet she did not retreat this time.

It was scary—allowing him to see what she had been holding to convey, being vulnerable like this—and actually appreciating it at the same time. She was relieved she could finally tell him despite indirectly, yet at the same time she felt so embarrassed.

“Still aching?” he asked.

She gave a small nod.

“How, if I may?”

“I thought—I thought you wanted to ask why,” she finally found her voice again.

“Does not matter. So, how?”

“Well…” she tried to keep her tone neutral. “Why do you think I wanted to know how to punch?”

“Someone hit you with a balled fist,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hnnn,” she nodded, fidgeting. “Actually…” it was like a canal free from its balk—she slowly relieved her experience with him, telling him how she just wanted to find a clue about her mother because the asshole from yesterday said he knew many dancers. And how that unwanted touch landed on her—

“Should have broken the glass over his eyes.”

“Ares.”

“Alright, his artery.”

“ _Ares._ ”

“And he dared to lay a finger on you twice before trying to pick a fight with me? Had I known it was the same person, let’s see if he could still talk after that night.”

“ARES.”

“You hate fighting so much but what he did prompted you feeling forced to learn how to maim another with your bare hands. … Unacceptable, distressing you like this. The strong must protect the sweet!”

“Ares—wait, what?”

“The strong must protect the sweet?” he repeated. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Uh—does that mean I am the sweet one?” she asked, awkwardly.  

“Sure? You threw a drink in his face for _that_ instead of making him carry his eyeballs in his hand on the way out after ogling you like that, now that is sweet if you ask me!”

“I—think you have the wrong… definition of sweet here,” she chuckled.

“Of course I do not. My definition of sweet is you,” he replied bluntly, huffing.

“Wha—?”

“Why are you gaping like that? Of course it is not the creep.”

“N-no, it’s okay. Sigh, I _do_ forget you say the darndest things with a straight face... umm, since I plan to fill in for the sick Maeve today, I should get ready now…”

“You are still doing this,” he commented.

“… Yes,” she exhaled. Her eyes spoke of a determination as her lips cracked into a smile. “Besides, it is past now. I don’t think I’ll run into him again today, especially during the day!”

“So,” he concealed a grin, “since chances are he will not be there, will it be okay for you to tell me what he looks like? Knight errant calls to warn bar ladies of the knave.”

“You can talk like that?” she giggled. “Well, I do not want to make him special by letting that incident traumatizes me since forever, so…” she relayed the necessary information to him. “… And you listened to me! For that, I…”

“If something scarred you, it did. It is alright,” Ares reminded himself to contain his vengeful anger in his throat. “You are not less worthy or strong. Any woman regardless of who she is can feel terrified under such situation. I think you are so brave and strong for being able to hold everything like this—I wish you would not measure your worth that way, however. Who cares if you can’t punch people. I can.”

“Ah, Ares…”

“Rather than that, what did you want to convey to me just now?”

“Hnnn~? Oh. Well,” she smiled daintily under her lashes, and… “I thank Lord Ares for his chivalrous quest to warn the ladies, so I hope Sir Knight accept this humble expression of gratitude!” she laughed merrily, dropping to her knees to form a perfect, proper curtsy worth the envy of royal court officials.

“L-Lord Ares, huh.”

“Ares, your face is red.”

“You called me—that.”

“Mm-hmm I did. And…?”

“And you curtsied to me.”

“Yes? Ahhh! Can it be possible that you are a…”

“No, not really a royalty for now, but—“

“The classical gallant type?”

“… Huh?”

“Heheee, you are blushing! I am right, right? I know I am right… Lord Ares!”

“Lene.”

“Yes, milord?”

_“… Lene.”_

“I thought by now you would have understood that your death stares do not work on me.”

“I suppose…”

“Then I’ll be off now, Lord Ares,” Lene laughed again, making yet another curtsy and turned around.

“… There is another thing,” he mentioned, gesturing to reach her from behind. “About the waitressing.”

“Ah. Yes?” she stopped. Ares was healthy now. He would not get melancholically dramatic like he was when he caught a cold… right? She hoped Ares would not kiss her hand again—first, it would be cliché! Second… well, he would have to pick her up with a canteen in case she melted.

“You scored half the victory, and I am done with my questions,” he chuckled. “So would you take your prize now before embarking on this noble waitressing quest on behalf of your sick friend—“

“Haha, Ares, what are you…”

“—Your Majesty, my Queen?” he bowed solemnly, lifting the hand he took as he did so. There was a satisfied leonine smirk on his face when she relented, looking so _begrudgingly_ shy that her attempt to jest with him backfired like that.

“Where did you—learn—court mannerism?”

“Hmmm?” he simply muttered, delightfully chuckling when her face turned red. Perhaps someday he would tell her his story. The one that was not about the Black Knight, but the heir to one of the noblest thrones in the history of Jugdral. But for now he was contended enough to relish in the possibility that his touch might help easing the other one that pained.

Ares quickly caught little crystal beads emanating from the corner of his eyes when Lene was not looking. The dancer was not the only person who had been holding everything for a long time, and he did not realize how tiring it could be, if not for the little jest she did by titling him made him feel so nostalgic.

* * *

 

No Darnaian ever expected this.

And by that, it meant _never._ Never in these years with the Black Knight’s name striking the fear in the hearts of citizens of this region of the Yied.

The barkeep was concerned when Lene came in, bearing the bad news about Maeve. But to get all the details he had to converse with Ares, since he was the one who took Maeve home and the first person the barmaid informed of her condition. The barkeep did not need to save his inquiries until Maeve was healthy again to get back to work because the warrior casually strolled in, following his companion dancer’s footsteps.

And this time his presence turned heads more than usual. Ogling would be the mildest way to describe the way people looking at him, because as mouths agape and eyes bulged, the feared Black Knight hardly bothered to address the regional confusion because… well, for starters, he was still the Black Knight and his death glares alone did wonders as long as the person was not Lene.

Ares informed the barkeep about Maeve at the counter, before mouthing to Lene that he needed a drink before meeting her in the kitchen to observe how people worked because he had never been waitressing before.

… Yes, waitressing. Ares simply relayed to Lene he was curious of the waitressing, and Lene did not object even though she would be too smart to pretend that she did not sense his sudden urge to be protective. Lene smiled. Ares was simply like that, just like with his cat. Speaking of which, now that he was there, perhaps she could make him take some leftovers for Eldie too…

What Lene noticed was Ares appeared engaging the barkeep in a serious conversation, because he had that trademark look on his face and both spoke in a low, faint voice. _Men,_ she thought, shrugging. Perhaps even Ares had his own male-things he would rather discuss with other men. And perhaps that was the case today because the barkeep called the waiters to join them, an invitation the clown one took enthusiastically. Ares nodded with a faint smile when he approached, and Lene grinned, recalling his rooftop moments or when this waiter, Aldo, calling him comrade.

Aldo nearly collapsed on his feet, pointing at something on the Black Knight’s appearance. Lene heard the waiter reflexively shouting “I yield!” when Ares merely stated anyone desiring an answer had to truly best him in a fight.

Lene made a mental note to smack Ares’ head for scaring people again later.

“Good luck,” Adela, the cook, patted the dancer shoulder when diners started pouring in. It was still around four in the afternoon, and they were not in a rush—something Lene appreciated because this way she could adapt before the nightly diner crowd maimed her and the waiters like a killer whale.

“Thanks,” she whispered groggily. But before leaving, she smirked at her. “Maeve is recovering.”

Adela was too red-faced to hit her with a spatula, but she countered regardless. “And what about that?”

When the cook darted a glance at Ares, it was Lene’s turn to be too shy to hit her with a tray. The subject of the chit-chat glanced at his pocket watch, approaching the ladies in the kitchen, sparing the dancer a reassuring smile which she totally did not expect.

What would he do?

Regardless, everything went pretty smoothly so far. Foods came out pretty quickly, and Lene picked up her paces because she was used to move around as a dancer. However…

The front door was yanked open, bumping into the wall, making a loud, unpleasant distressing sound.

Lene held her breath in her throat. _That... can’t be,_ she whispered faintly, reflexively clutching on the kitchen’s threshold. It was the same group as yesterday, still obnoxious, but today they looked like a pack of hyenas on a hunting mission.

“Where is she?!” the man from yesterday bellowed so coarsely that she thought the wave could throw her to the end of the continent. “Dammit, is there nobody to answer me here or what?”

Lene glanced inside. Ares was collecting water from the well at the backyard, and Adela rushed to him with a cauldron containing chicken breasts she was about to cook. She bit her lips. At least he did not know. Ares had inquired about her assault as soft as a silk bolt, but gods be damned if…

“Hey,” she could see the ruffian stopping Aldo. “I need to ask. What time is that bitch’s dancing shift?”

“Sorry Sir, ‘Iunno,” Aldo grimaced. “Your order?”

“Goddammit. I KNOW you know! Need to teach a bitch a lesson for humiliating me like that. You wanna talk or what, wimp?”

“No way this one snitches on a friend,” Aldo held his ground, his skinny posture being no match against the imposing ruffian’s gestures. “And please, please just have your meals in peace.”

“The fuck is happening here, is this a troubadour’s tavern or something?”

“Lene?” Adela looked outside.

“They are—they are going to punch him as well,” Lene clutched on her skirt. “I—“

“Don’t,” Adela held her back. “Really? First heavy rainfall and now a bunch of creeps?”

“But Aldo! No way, he’ll be out cold in a second.”

“Creeps?”

“Uh—hi, Ares.”

“ ‘Hi, Ares’?” he repeated with knitted eyebrows. “Well, hi as well then, Lene.”

“H-haha, hahaha,” she mustered a chuckle, not knowing how to react.

“Hmmm. You see, I had a _nice_ chit-chat with the barkeep and those waiter guys. You know, the clown and the beast tamer,” Ares responded in a comically innocent manner, “and…”

“You mean Aldo who helped you with the ladder and then Helios who made a camper’s stove.”

“Ah, yes. Messieurs Ladder and Stove.”

“Ares…” Lene facepalmed so hard that even Adela cracked a smile.

“See, the barkeep asked Mister Stove if the current customers already got their food. He said yes,” Ares clasped his chin, “and if you still have orders waiting to come out?” he gestured at Adela.

“No, they are all taken care of,” replied the cook.

“And he wanted Mister Ladder to wash all the cauldron while Mister Stove can stove again for us,” the Black Knight continued.

“Oh, I see…” Lene pondered, “what is my task?”

“Rest.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Rest?” he replied. “You know, sitting down and taking it easy?”

“Uncle Barkeep said so?” she inquired. “Oh—gosh, have I messed with the orders? I did not break any plates! Did I do something wrong?” she reflexively brought her hands on to her face.

“No. Rest assured,” Ares chuckled gently, “and that was _my_ request.”

“Huh? But Ares… eeeh?” she let out a soft squeal when Ares sneaked an arm around her waist. Without saying anything he hoisted her as if carrying Eldie while she gasped, under Adela’s pleasant giggles.

“I used that stool yesterday with Maeve, you know? There is another one with a cushion nearby!”

“Adela!”

“Perfect. Thank you, Miss,” Ares smirked, catching the jest. “And now…”

“Hnnn!” she sighed when he seated her. “What are you doing?”

“Strength training?” the Black Knight replied with a straight face. But his eyes looked tempered if not soft, and Lene did not have to think twice he was playfully joking with her. Yet something in those very same eyes also tried to convey another, since for a moment they looked… fiery.

“Am I so weightless that you could just pick me up like that?” she pouted.

“Of course not, you are not a ghost—ouch,” he grinned when she yanked his mullet.

“Beautiful braids.”

“Done by a professional!” he nodded. That truly was something to behold that afternoon. The Black Knight strolled the town, wearing his golden hair in beautiful, nicely-done _twin_ braids, decorated with soft pink ribbons. And he carried his walk with the calmest, most confident devil-may-care attitude throughout the day. Well, imagine if eyes could give the finger…

“I am still surprised,” she muttered.

“Well, to achieve something you really want, you need to do something you never, right?” he shrugged casually. “There. Do not hop around while I am gone, rabbit.”

“Or~?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious. What was it that he wanted to do, really?

“Or I will tie you up.”

“You will—WHAT?”

“Knot work is a part of warfare, you know?”

“T-that’s not what I… never mind,” Lene sighed. “… But you will be back, right?”

“Yes,” he smiled this time. “After all I have a hostage.”

Ares left the kitchen, leaving Lene and Adela who could only shoot him confused looks. When Lene was sure she could no longer hear Ares’ footsteps, she hoped off from the chair Ares seated her in, rushing to the kitchen door he gently closed. “I don’t understand,” she mumbled.

“Neither do I, but if the Boss said so…” Adela shrugged. “Did you leave that chair just so he ties you up?”

“You talk like Maeve,” Lene playfully smacked the cook with a bundle of celeries.

“It’s love,” Adela laughed, throwing a pinch of flour at her. However as if reading her thoughts, the cook paused, exchanging glances with the anxious dancer. Carefully strolling closer to the door on her tip-toes as if they were all truly Ares’ hostages for the day, she opened it, and it did not take long for Lene to join in, stealing a glance to the outside world—ahem, the dining area ....

 

Ares conveniently made his way to the table he intended. As always he carried his way with quiet long strands like a hunting lion—calm and alert. From the limited view through the gap of the slightly-opened kitchen door, Lene had to press her hand against her mouth again when she realized where he headed.

That table.

The table with the ruffians.

 _How did… Ares…_ —she wanted to scream. What did he tell her before? Making her attacker walk out with his own eyeballs in his hand? And that thing he said as he drifted to sleep on her bed about not losing what he marked—

Perhaps that was all the so-called nice chit-chat about. She was late. She was too late to realize Ares probably interviewed bar workers about the incident. Was he burning in silent fury all these hours—but even if he was, why? Lene had sensed Ares could get protective of women, probably because he lost his mother at a young age as he said; not to mention that she was a frail woman throughout her life. But…

Her doubts returned when she started to feel at ease. Was she just _that_ feeble after all?

Even Adela gasped when the same creep, without averting his eyes from the plate he was facing, mindlessly moved his curse hand as the Black Knight went by, and…

Lene could not stay still.

She bolted out of the kitchen while Adela was still too bewildered to say anything.

The ruffian had grabbed Ares by the butt, probably because of the braids she did him. And yet—

“Can I help you?”

If anything, Lene had learned that a lion flashing his fangs signaled blood shed instead of a smile. Ares stopped, casually fixed the apron he had borrowed from Aldo.

The ruffian’s look was priceless. “What the hell?”

“Hell? Your face. Want some egg with that?” he replied calmly, procuring a fountain pen and a note stash from Aldo’s apron.

“Is this a joke?”

“No, but your existence is. Fries?”

“What…” the ruffian was all _purple-blue_ with anger. “You! The fuck you are doing with those—“

“Braids, Sir. Inedible. Anything else?”

“Why you—what is going on here?!”

“I tell you what is going on,” the Black Knight hissed, startling the ruffian. “You should take your time until those lips heal.”

“You—pretty boy from yesterday?!”

“Yes. Nice to meet you again, asshole from yesterday,” the Black Knight nodded casually, “still with the woman problem, aren’t you? And with _worse slur_ now?” he repeated the word the ruffian threw at him because of the braids.

“Why the fuck are you here?!”

“Promise me to behave like a person with a brain and a little shred of humanity to stop harassing ladies who work here,” he posited, “and I will let you go. I promise I will never touch you again.”

The ruffian sighed.

“Thank you kindly,” Ares bowed slightly, turning his back to return to the kitchen. However…

“Is that because of that bitch over there again? The fuck she thinks she is, a princess?!”

“Ares, noooo! Behind you!!”

“Lene?!” Ares jolted. From the corner of his eyes he caught something rushing against him from behind. Something shiny. Something curved. Something…

Lene stared in shock. There was a loud crashing sound, followed by shattered glass shards. A bottle. A bottle being swung against the blond-haired warrior, and he countered just time to pacify the attack. Ares made a rapid turn, his fist flew smoothly, hammering the base of the ruffian’s wrist that the latter lost power to grip the bottle. What Ares just showed was practically the similar move he used to block one of her three attacks during his three-punch challenge.

_So that is how it would be if…_

The shattered bottle shards flew across several directions, and she made an astonished sound as she jumped to evade several which landed too close to her feet. “Um—“

“Are you alright? Are you hurt or not?”

“Ares—“

“Answer me, are you bleeding or not?!”

He clutched on her, steadying her position from moving to evade the shards. His touch this time was tighter than how he typically would hold her when she needed some help. “N-no,” she whispered. “Are you—“

“I never feel this fine in my life,” he set her aside, turning his attention to the ruffian. “You…”

“Hey, why are you looking at me like that?!”

“What was that for?” he stepped forward. “If you want a fight, just ask.”

“I—“

Words fell back to the depth of abyss as Ares’ fist made a grand entrance against the ruffian’s face.

“You have talked. My turn now,” he hovered closer. The image of a shrinking Lene danced in his mind. The woman who still wanted to believe in the world—the woman who had experienced gods-know-fuck-what that her first thought upon seeing a boxing drilling was whether or not she could prevail to save her life. The dancer who endured everything in silence, who retorted to cheeriness so she could bide her time to hold everything longer. … Too long. Too long perhaps.

“You know she is standing there behind me,” Ares relayed his threat, word per word, like he just cast a marking iron across the ruffian’s body. “Yet you did that regardless. Tell me. What did _she_ do to you?”

Those chapped lips tried to make a rebuttal, and Ares rewarded the ruffian with a headlock.

“Because she yelled at you?” he asked, tightening his grip. “Because she threw a drink in your face?”

The ruffian gasped for a breath.

“Even if she slapped you, it still does not qualify for the bruise on her face. You think everything is on par—her _fighting back_ with you forcing yourself on her. You blindly think it is an eye for an eye, while in reality she—and perhaps other ladies you _abused_ —already lost their eyes to begin with.”

_Ares—_

“What’s wrong there, buddy, can’t breathe?”

_—Ares—!_

He looked so strong, so strong and menacing at the same time. And she—

“If you think every attack is equal and it is just about the art of being an asshole without regards to power dynamics here, then why are you begging me for mercy?” Ares made a _tsk, tsk_ sound before he released the headlock, throwing the ruffian on to the table he occupied—while his gang had been too stunned and too scared to step in.

The ruffian laid still, but he was still alive—judging from the soft movements of his chest.

“Oi!” Ares bellowed at the rest of the gang. “Collect your trash before I _dismember_ _it_.”

“W-we will! I’m sorry, I’m sorry that he’s an asshole!!”

Ares inhaled, his ferocious gaze slowly died down as he did so. “… I honestly do not take pride in this…” he muttered, “… and yet somehow it needs violence to stop people from being violent.”

“… You are alright!” she whispered. What was more distressing, she did not know—thinking he would lose his head the moment that bottle was being swung at him, thinking it was a concealed dagger and how he could have bled to death if he was not agile enough, or…

… Or the things he said to the man who… assaulted her.

“I was a street rat and got adopted by a mercenary chief. Dirty trick is not new to me,” he responded.

“No.”

“No…?”

“You are—a warrior,” her words trailed. “I’m so happy you are alright! I thought—“

“Ah, the ribbons? They are fine. Look,” he twirled his braids to show her. “… Anyway, how much longer do you intend to keep my hair like this?”

“You are concerned about the… ribbons?”

“Yes? The pink ones are your favorites, are they not?” he peeked into his twin braids again. “And so am I about your legs. Are you really alright?”

“Aah, Leneee!” Adela rushed to the dining area, finding the menace was gone, a bottle shattered, and the dancer being so shocked she could hardly muster a reply. “Sorry, Sir Black Knight. Should have not.”

“There is a reason why I did not want you to be here,” he glanced around.

“I ruined your negotiation table,” she commented weakly.

“No. Because I thought—you have been holding so far, so there should be no need for you to…”

“… Meddle?”

“Face your abuser,” he finished his sentence. “At least alone.”

“So!” Adela folded her arms. “You intend to lock us all together in the kitchen because…”

“Aren’t you all her friends?”

Everyone gasped.

“And she will feel better and safer when she is with you guys, right?”

Everyone gasped again.

“… Why are you all looking at me like that?” Ares, totally oblivious with everything, stared back with a dumbfounded look on his face.

* * *

 

“Stop smiling.”

“Nooope~”

“Lene—for the love of anything… what, cute? Stop smiling, _please._ ”

“Nooo~ and here is another one.”

“You—“

“Hnnn? What’s wrong, Lord Ares?” she giggled. “Ah, yes, I forgot!” she dropped into a curtsy again. “Thank you very much, Lord Ares, for standing up for what is just.”

Ares huffed. He would fight anyone, alright—anyone. Anyone would be fine, but Lene. Everything failed when facing her, was she a sorceress or something? Ah, yes, his luck was worst when it came to magic. “You really just could not stay still, could you, Queen Rabbit?”

“Yes, Sir Black Knight. Now tie her up,” Adela remarked. “You guys are a pair of goofballs.”

“I said that, didn’t I,” Ares retreated, red-faced. “Alright, if there is nothing left here…”

“I’m still a substitute waitress for Maeve!”

“… then I will stay.”

“Or you can fill in too!” Lene giggled again. “Look, a cute new waitress! With luminous blond hair, beautifully braided. Even the ribbons are cute! Twin braids, twin braids, twin braids!”

“Alright, that’s it.”

“Ares! H-hey, what are you…”

“Taking you hostage.”

Adela glanced. And sighed. And _smirked._

“Ares—aaah—“

“Done. No more braids-hour,” it was his turn to smirk. Yeah, Hezul be damned, his own challenge be damned that he indeed loosely tied her wrists together in front of her with the pink ribbons. And to add insult to injury, cute _shit_ be damned.

Lene made yet another huffing sound as she pouted. “I still got your nose, you know…”

“Accidentally. Your victory was a premature one.”

“I still can wiggle free, you know…”

“You can’t. Anything else, Miss?”

“This is loose. Meh, you suck at warfare,” she held up her wrists in front of her.

“It will tighten if you try to break free,” the leonine smirk returned again. “That is actually an archaic way to herd a prisoner to the jail or when you want them in your tent for interrogation. You do not want to hurt them, but you want to anticipate a… retaliation.”

“Why would I retaliate?”

“Why would not you?”

“Sir Black Knight is kinkier than Maeve?”

“Tie her up too,” Lene begrudgingly gestured to Adela.

“Can’t. She is the cook,” Ares tried to keep a straight face because he wanted to smile again.

“I cook,” Lene replied, sullenly.

“Not _the_ cook.”

“I’ll get away,” she pouted again.

“Take your time!” he faked a death stare.

“Try harder,” she managed to pull a knot.

“You first,” he smirked again because the binding only got entangled in her hands.

“What a merciful captor,” she shook her head.

“Because why would I hurt you at all?”

“Hnnn.”

“See, no mullet-yanking today. My hair is free,” he chuckled. “Only for today, mind you,” adding, he gestured at Adela.

“And what are you doing while I am here being your supposed oh-so-helpless hostage and all that?” Lene asked as she casually stepped on Ares’ boots.

“Waitressing.”

“Wait. What? Waitressing?”

“Yes. On behalf of you.”

“… Seriously?”

“And I’ll come back here with a plate for the dinner and all that since the foods are all here,” he nodded. “What do you want to drink?”

“… Ares.”

“… Your face said ‘thank you, but fight me’?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not fighting a restrained warrior.”

“Warrior.”

“You are.”

“Ares.”

“… This time it is a ‘fight me or I braid you again’?”

“Truly so.”

“Alright, I suppose I can…” he shrugged. “Reach my nose again. I will only dodge, not countering, not blocking.” He clasped his hands _behind_ his back. “And I like it fair. After you then, Miss.”

She lunged.

“Vertically from above? Try from under next time, Lene, because your opponent’s vision would be—“

She smiled.

He paused.

… No, he froze.

“… Ouch,” he muttered as her clasped hands nicely landed on his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: Thank you for all the comments and everyone who still follows this fict so far!
> 
> Secondly, I'm so SORRY for the length omg I did not plan to end it this way but suddenly I got ideas. Again, I am really sorry that this chapter is longer than the others.
> 
> Third: My computer is pretty old and the keyboard is a battlefield. Sorry in advance in case of typos or weird spacing. I will be back to hunt them down later x))
> 
> Last but not least, my love and utmost respect for women who survive abuse(s).


	19. Acceptance

Around midday, a local bar in Darna got an unexpected visitor.

The bar usually operated as early as around two or three in the afternoon until the night fell, so a visiting person during such hour already made a scene because it was pretty much an unlikely situation.

The day was particularly busy because not only produces the bar ordered just came from Melgen, but also so did the rest of locally-grown produces the bar supplied itself with. Yied was a harsh place to live, and although Darna was not exactly located at the heart of Yied’s unforgiving, exhausting desert heat, it did not mean the citizens lived an easy life compared to places where the forests were more lush—or those which boasted a sophisticated, self-sustaining farming culture.

The main market did provide the necessities for the most citizens, but due to the topography and geographical location, prices in Darna would always be relatively higher compared to other places. The closest Darnaians could think of in regards of scarcity would be Thracia, but then again Thracians had long solidified themselves working as mercenaries. Thracians were as reliable and as strong as a professional standing-army, whereas Darna was…

Well, if even prominent citizens of Darna such as the mercenary Javarro would have a _kind_ word to spare to describe Darna, let alone ordinary citizens. Perhaps Miletos could rival Darna in terms of higher prices, but then again there had been no competition to begin with considering Miletos was a trade hub, which produces were sought by the rich. Average Miletians were already better-off compared to average Darnaians. Rich Grannvalians and Friegians made among Miletos’ distinguished customers, and with a reputation to uphold Miletos merchants could go out of their way to procure the best for those with thick pockets willing to pay.

The famed Darnaian dancer Lene had never been to Miletos, but according to the musicians who had been invited to perform in Count Bramsel’s castle, Miletos ought to be a heaven for shoppers because of antique vases and home decors they saw.

Of course, knowing Lene, they quickly shut her up when she did not bother to hide her displeasure and was about to call Bramsel a _very creative_ word. The count lived a lavish life. Lene would not be surprised to hear how ruling nobles belonging to royal houses would be surrounded by maximum comfort their budget allowed them to obtain—the problem was, these days she hardly had any positive opinion about most nobles anymore. Their allowed budgeting often meant in the expense of others, and the last time she checked, Bramsel imposed heavier taxes on the citizens since three months ago.

When the musicians had to admit it was rather extreme considering people were struggling to save for winter, without hesitation Lene dubbed it as a ‘dick move’. When people’s eyes widened, Lene had to clarify her statement… by telling them because that was all Bramsel had—a dick to orbit among pretty ladies, if not already exposed every day as it was his face.

Lene needed every cent she could save and obtain, but she still found it hard to pretend she did not know Bramsel had made lavish shopping trips and hired beautiful young entertainers half his age while ordinary citizens had to consider whether rivaling another in foraging fire woods in their already-limited forestry area, or giving up something else for some coals they could take home from the merchants.

And sure, merchants aimed for a profit. It was logical to see there was a business potential because the Yied was nearly unable to grow various vegetables, but logical did not mean merciful. Lately Lene had been following Ares by buying more meat than vegetables simply because the prices of the two were closer now that winter truly was on their door.

Lene tied an apron behind her waist. Enthusiastically, she rolled her sleeves up. Her smile crowned her face as she checked for her appearance once again in front of a mirror the barkeep had kept behind the counter. “Here goes!” her voice was as lively as her smile, and she tightened her ponytail to give her appearance its last touch.

“I wonder what makes you so excited,” the barmaid, Maeve, commented. She swayed slowly to the counter, her hips waved back and forth. There were three bottles in her hands, and Lene quickly seized them all from her before she could even place them over the counter.

“Let me!! Maeve, why are you here?”

“Getting back at work?” the barmaid chuckled. “And I miss our sense-knocking cook, you know. And she needs some wine and water to start making the meals.”

“But.”

“Ssh, Little Lene,” the barmaid chuckled again. “I will not force myself. I promise.”

“You better!” Lene warned her with a grumbling-ish tone. “I came here today because I thought even if you came, you would be only working half-day. And with all these produces coming in, I know Uncle Barkeep can use an extra hand.”

“Is that part of the deal?” Maeve winked, gesturing to a familiar sight beyond the wide-opened doors.

Lene followed where she pointed. Helios and Aldo were busy as crates were being brought inside, and another carriage stopped with more crates as its loading. “I don’t handle purchases,” she frowned, “I’m first and foremost a dancer, though. I won’t even _dare_. I’m not touching anything that is not mine.”

“Dear. Come on. Last time I checked, we did not order a handsome lion.”

“What?” Lene frowned even deeper. She rushed outside, thinking there had to be a mistake or some sort. Or perhaps there was not, but Maeve did not come yesterday, thus most likely she did not know the details for today’s transaction. Well, even the barkeep did not expect her to come, but everyone was already surprised when her small footsteps and slow paces graced their bar just ten minutes ago.

And then she saw him.

“Oh,” that was the only thing the dancer could mutter. She sheepishly retreated when Ares strolled inside. “We did not order _that_ either, Maeve.”

“Hi there, Sir Black Knight,” Maeve pursed her lips, swaying her hips in a playful seductive manner. “We did not order a lion. Are you here to eat Lene?”

“You missed a lot yesterday. He tied her up,” Adela, the cook, commented. She left the kitchen to get the wine and water Maeve had promised to bring for her.

“My, my,” Maeve sighed. “I did miss you then, Sir Black Knight.”

“Be _grateful_ then,” Ares _glared_ at her with a curt tone, prompting Maeve to sulk while Lene giggled seamlessly near the counter. He looked pleased to hear her laughter, it seemed, because his glare quickly dissipated as he nodded at her to acknowledge her presence.

“It’s alright!” Lene quickly interjected while Maeve looked pretty pale. It had been a while but the bar folks still could not tell if the Black Knight wanted blood or actually wanted them to die… in laughter. “What brings you here in this early hour?”

“That can wait. But first, I did not come here to eat you,” Ares responded, dead, dead serious this time because his tone was so resolved like he was determined to get his point across.

“Too bad! Why not?” Maeve chirped again.

“Because I want to get some milk for my cat,” Ares responded again. “And I’m not eating her, of course. That sounds hurt, don’t you think? I do not want that.”

“L-let’s… let’s just skip that part, alright?” Lene took his arm without hesitation, seating the feared warrior at his typical table—the one which others had dubbed to be his throne.

“Huh? But I want to make it clear I come here only with peace?”

Of course, it was Maeve’s turn to nearly die of laughter. “So he likes it quiet?” Maeve slid closer to Lene. Even now that they could crack jokes with the Black Knight like this—or even better, laughing _at_ him—they had no intention to play limit-testing, and it always felt reliable to depend on Lene because the dancer seemed to _always_ know what to do. Maeve only had nothing but glistening sharp stares at the two of them. Well, now she would think twice to even consider whether Ares was evil. But better safe than sorry. After all he was still the Black Knight, and only miracle could get him to warm up to them so far.

 _… Well, perhaps even miracle could use some work…_ Maeve thought again, looking at Lene.

“Ares is not a bad person,” the dancer simply laughed, ruffling the Black Knight’s mane in a very unreserved manner. “And I told you again and again, he is more of a cute cub than a lion.”

“So, you think he is cute,” Maeve laughed again.

“Stop twisting my words!” Lene protested.

“I have no idea what this is all about, but do as you please, I guess,” Ares remarked, shrugging. “You are helping again today?”

“It seems,” Lene chuckled, pointing at her apron. “So, only milk today? For Eldie?”

“Yes,” Ares remarked. “I was thinking. Do you handle daily orders?”

“We are not a catering service,” it was Adela who answered. “I am the cook, so most of the food things have to pass through me.”

“No. I was thinking if I can have… some milk everyday, for my cat.”

“For your… cat?” all the ladies, minus Lene, could only stare at him.

“Yes. Nobody drinks milk in my group. They probably think strength comes from outdrinking their livers,” the Black Knight replied. His tone was indifferent, but the dancer gave a small smile as she gently ushered him back to the counter.

“Then let’s discuss it with Uncle Barkeep, Ares.”

“I suppose,” Ares mumbled, “I’m not really sure about procuring it from… somewhere else.”

“Really?” Lene beamed at him. “Then thank you very much for trusting us with your business!”

“Do you think so—hmm, I did not even—then alright, I guess,” Ares spoke awkwardly. He appeared to be taken aback because her reaction was nowhere close to what he predicted. Regardless, somehow her reaction improved his mood, and he found himself smiling as he followed her to the counter.

“Uncle Barkeep!” Lene cheerfully climbed on the countertop, making a split as her cheerful laughter colored the bar. “You have a new client.”

“Who?” the barkeep did not even look because he was busy unboxing a crate containing wine bottles.

“Why, none other than Ares right here!” Lene laughed again, tapping the warrior’s shoulder. There was no “What?!” or “Really?!” from the dancer—spare the one just now—which he would expect from basically anyone else had he come to this supposed anyone else with such request. Even then Lene did not utter her line like she thought he had bumped his head in the morning.

Ares was not actually unaware that people most likely would reward him with such startled expression when he queried about the milk. But there was always something about the dancer which made him… comfortable, he thought, feeling surprised by his own conclusion at this point. Lene looked happy just because he said he wanted to buy milk for Eldie.

“Are you surprised I am…” he gestured awkwardly to the milk bottles behind the barkeep.

“A little bit. Because usually you came only for drinks, right?” she simply shook her head again, smiling.

“And beating up people, I guess. I am sorry for the other day…” his expression turned concerned.

“Ares, I am not surprised because you wanted to give Eldie. I’ve always known you are kind!” Lene gently patted the warrior’s cheek because of how somber he looked. “It’s just I felt honored because we are your first choice. Thank you for trusting us—about Eldie, as well!”

“… That… made you happy?” he cocked an eyebrow.

“Mm-hmm!” Lene hummed again, twirling before lifting herself to sit cross-legged on the counter. “I can see you truly care about Eldie! I’m so glad because now we can help you taking care of him~!”

“You do have… the most unpopular opinions, Miss Dancer,” he replied, turning his back from her. “Hey Uncle, I’ll be at my table when you are done so we can talk.”

“I-is that a threat? I’m coming!”

“Not again,” Ares sighed. “Alright then, I’ll be here, standing by the counter. Take your time. _Please_.”

“Hehe, now you are embarrassed. Why are you so cute?” Lene giggled. “I’ll get the bottles.”

Ares shook his head, feeling amused at how enthusiastic she was. Just because he wanted to buy some milk for his cat? And she was so eager to help him. From before the counter Ares could see the dancer meticulously scanning the labels marking bottles and jars in the large, built-in-the-wall shelf. He could hear her mumbling excitedly when she found the milk.

The dancer anxiously stood on her tip-toes, trying to reach for the bottles placed among the top-most ladders of the shelf. Milk was not the most popular drink choice in the bar—obviously, compared to wine, ale, and cider. But Ares was thankful the bar was resourceful, unlike most other bars which tended to immediately cut off products that did not sell well compared to others. “Need a help over there?”

Ares nearly chuckled when Lene turned at him, sweetly shooting him fiery lava with her eyes. “No, Mr. Height Demon,” she said with a smile, “unless you want an extra bludgeon with that.”

“I did not order an extra,” the warrior kept his face stern, folding his arms to maintain a serious impression. Perhaps his offer only triggered the competitive spirit in the dancer, because she was now more determined than ever to reach for the ladder where the milk bottles were.

The dancer reached for two bottles after another attempt of tip-toes standing and hands-stretching, proudly bringing it back to the counter where he waited. “Theeere~” she handed the bottles to him, humming melodically with a triumphant smirk.

“I will take both of them,” Ares came closer to reach for the bottles.

“Here comes the hurricane!” one of the waiters—Helios—announced from the outside. He was just finished loading the final crate the bar had ordered from suppliers. Helios brought in a big crate containing vegetables, prompting people to move sides to evade him.

Everyone—but Ares.

It was too late for him to see Helios was coming from behind his right shoulder, and everyone gasped as the crate made an ugly sound when it collided with his face. Some strands of blond hair could be seen disheveling when Ares rapidly tilted his head, facing Helios and the incoming load the waiter was shouldering.

“… Ah,” the Black Knight muttered, rubbing where the crate bumped into him. His eyes narrowed when he felt something was different there, and his expression did not change when he took off his hand from his face, revealing a new fresh cut with some blood drip staining his fingers.

By then the barkeep had finished sorting the goods on the floor behind the counter. The old man got up, looking horrified because of the view which awaited him. “Why did you have blood in your face?”

“Bumping into… that,” Ares replied, pressing his sleeve onto his face to stop the bleeding as his other hand fixed his hair. Helios dropped the crate at an instant, looking pale.

“I did not mean to…”

“I know.”

“I thought you would dodge!”

“Hey, Helios,” Lene interrupted, jumping over the counter in a not-so-graceful manner. “You could have apologized without the ifs and the buts, you know,” she huffed, eyeing the crate the waiter had dropped out of panic for wounding the Black Knight. “I understand you had a heavy load on your shoulder which shielded your eyes, but Ares had his back turned at that time.”

“Well…”

“It’s alright,” Ares interjected again, throwing his hair behind his shoulders and tucking his fringes behind his ears. He looked awkward now that Lene stood for his defense.

“I suppose…” Helios held his head down. “My apologies, Black Knight.”

“I’ll take this inside,” Lene pointed at the crate. “You better treat that one, Ares!”

“That one is big,” the warrior commented flatly.

“And rather heavy,” Helios nodded in agreement.

“I’m taking this. You better help him with his wound or something,” Lene shook her head at Helios. “Strength training!” her eyes glowed mischievously, this time directed at Ares. Without hesitation she crouched to pick up the crate which was Helios’ task to bring inside. After some adjusting—including swaying left and right in the process, the dancer proudly lifted the crate, placing it on her shoulder and strolled inside to the kitchen before Ares could react. The infamous Black Knight could hear some melodic tune because Lene made her exit with a pleasant whistling sound. Feeling amused, he gently shook his head as his eyes were glued to where she headed.

“What on earth—Lene!” everyone at the dining area could hear Adela’s shocked voice, with the sound of something-thumping on the floor. But before long a cheerful laughter overwhelmed the cook as the dancer returned to the dining room, all-smiles and laughter on her face.

“I am strong,” she said, flexing her arm as if showing off her muscles to Ares.

“Definitely,” the Black Knight replied in a simple manner. “That is why I never want to fight you.” Facing the barkeep with pursed lips for the sake of his own good, he continued his proposed transaction, and looking pretty satisfied when the barkeep greenlighted the deal. It was to be agreed that he would come to pick up the milk for Eldie every morning, or during the night if he had a mission in the morning. Since the bar only started operating past-noon, it was then understood that Ares could pick up what he needed from Lene, whom he often met at the market if not for their usual training session.

Perhaps the barkeep felt guilty—if not scared—because one of his workers wounded him. Regardless, Ares could drop his payment when he dropped by during the night as always, or have Lene delivered it to the barkeep. Guilt-ridden Helios even proposed they left one window open so that they could place the bottles at the windowsill, only keeping the small inner wooden doors closed so that the window was not completely left unprotected.

And that day everyone witnessed how awkward Ares was when Helios profusely apologized to him.

Lene hopped behind the counter again, pouring some water into a small metal bow, setting it before Ares with a napkin at the side. “For the wound,” she simply stated before returning to help the barkeep sorting out what was left as Maeve began giving each dining table the last cleaning touch.

“… Oh,” he commented, as if it was a foreign concept for him. “No need. Just a scratch.”

“Is it a pear?” Adela spoke from the kitchen, peeking into the crate Lene just brought in for her. “Who ordered pear? I swear, you boys are like children. I’ll have to draw the pennies from your own pocket!”

But after brief questioning—if not by the grace of her spatula threatening to whack the waiters—turned out nobody had ordered the pear. It was rather odd because there was only one pear in the midst of tomatoes, potatoes, and other vegetables in the crate, and the beautiful mistake received joyful reaction from everyone, especially the waiters now that their names were cleared.

The pear was quickly washed, rinsed, and brought to the counter, to the delighted Lene who wasted no time cutting the fruit to serve for everyone else. She laughed seeing how everyone enthusiastically waited until the pieces were arranged on a plate, and how impatient they looked when she had to fetch for some forks for that. Such simple delight made the happiest faces…

“Is that… rare?” Ares pointed to the plate, now crowded by the anticipating bar-workers.

“Well, seasons are changing,” the dancer replied simply. “The supplier must have accidentally put it there, but we do not always have it conveniently around here.”

“Topography,” the Black Knight remarked, swiping a strand of his fringes.

“That,” her eyes turned wistful for a moment, “and lately people here could not easily afford it.”

“… I see,” nodding, he made an understanding gesture. Being mercenary seemed to be the best option these days in terms of earnings, but at the same time it was never an easy choice. Pirates and bandits started to be braver as the people became more desperate, and the consequences saw ruling lords and titled heads tightening their security measures. Rumors regarding resistance groups became more common—organized or not, small or big, many people started measuring their supplies as much as they counted their pennies in case conflicts broke out.

“Have some too,” Lene gestured to the pear, smiling.

“I had it as a child,” he responded. Sometimes he wondered why smiling was such an easy matter for her like that—did every little thing in the world truly make her happy? Such a peculiar rabbit.

“Not as an adult?”

“… No,” he had to admit, there would always be a good chance for her questions to hit the bullseye.

“Now you have it,” she slightly pushed the plate at him again.

He wanted to thank her, but she had jumped over the counter again to rush to the front door, meeting a man in his thirties who dropped a bag in her hands. From where he stood he could hear the dancer talking a thing or two about herbs, and how it had to be their lucky day because after a misplaced pear, this time they had a few hothouse-grown oranges.

Ares waited for her to return, with a piece of pear flesh poking on his fork. Lene returned, dragging a sack with her as five oranges lay in the crook of her arm. She looked pleased to find him joining ransacking the plate, and was about to say something when a woman with a toddler came inside.

“I beg your pardon for coming so early,” the lady uttered, “do you have milk?”

The toddler was crying.

“I’ll look for some for you!” Lene quickly leaped to the counter again. More people were out at the streets at this point, and Ares could hear what some were saying as they passed by.

“Did not know the prima donna is an improper tomboy,” one remarked.

“Is that the infamous mercenary with the rumored demon sword over there?”

“She could have any man she wanted, why must she hang around someone like him?”

“Haha, come on, you know propriety is a foreign concept for these stage performers.”

Lene quickly jumped over the counter yet again. “Sorry about that, Uncle,” she muttered mischievously. “Whenever there is a crying baby, we are rushing with time.”

“She stretched her legs like that while wearing a skirt,” one of the passerby whispered to another.

“Um,” the dancer was now back to the door, anxiously eyeing the crying toddler. “I’m sorry, but it seems we run out of milk bottles…”

“Is that so,” the mother whispered like she was in disbelief. “It is my fault, really…”

“… Your fault?” Lene looked at her and the crying child in her arms.

The mother looked around before arching to whisper. “Could not breastfeed him because my milk would not come out. Perhaps I was too tired from overworking.” There was a faint shade of crimson on her face, and Lene did not need to press further why she said it with a heavy heart. There was no mother who would want to admit that they could not provide for their babies, and reflecting back into her own past Lene had tried to understand her mother’s decision to leave her in an orphanage even if not for her own sake. An orphanage where she could meet other children instead of placing her somewhere else where she could be… lonely.

“I’ll check the kitchen. Please don’t go just yet!”

She leaped again, this time running to the kitchen with long careless strides. Ares still watched, not knowing what happened, even when she bumped into tables Maeve had not cleaned after trying to jump over them because she grew impatient having to beeline the aisles.

And again, from where he stood, Ares could hear the whispers. The tomboy who did not know appropriate manner, they called her behind her back. How brazen she ought to be, inside-out, because she lifted her dress to the thighs before running to the kitchen. How odd it had to be for them because she was supposed to be a person of art, and what she displayed was not what they envisioned in mind in regards to the graceful nature of an art.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” in a short while Lene was back again to the door. She was panting softly, her hair disheveled for all the impatient moves she made, and there were a few of empty bottles in her hands. “We really are running out of it. The fastest I can think of would be… tonight, I guess. Milk is not a common selection so we never have much in stock, otherwise they will expire…”

“It’s alright,” the mother nodded sadly. “I understand, really. Thank you, Miss. I’m aware this is a bar, but the market is closing and the other store I know is on lunch break. You are the only one open.”

“… Then I guess, I can…” Ares strolled to the door. “Sorry for the intrusion, but take these.”

Lene stopped as the mother paused.

“They have been paid,” Ares reassured her, shoving the bottles into her hands.

“Then I—thank you. Thank you, truly, thank you,” the mother whispered, bowing to him before leaving.

Lene wanted to say something, but Adela’s face peeked from the kitchen. “Does anyone want the oranges? Maeve and I are not really fond of citruses because of the sourness.”

“Interesting when your face already is,” Aldo remarked. “Regret this to the heaven and back if they turn out to be sweet!”

“Don’t worry, I know sweet,” Adela smirked, not wasting a time to mutilate the clownish waiter back, glancing at Maeve. “Want one as well, Sir Black Knight?”

“… Me?” he pointed at himself. It still felt foreign somehow, to him, having people offer him things for free. The person he could think of doing that without any hesitation would be Lene, but even then it took a while for him to get used to the dancer’s way of—well, he did not know how to describe it either, socializing? Taking care of him? Regardless of what was what, it felt hard to turn her down. And perhaps the cherry on top there was that he was not even sure if it would be _right_ to turn her down.

Perhaps her presence helped people to soften with him. Or because he tagged along, her circle started regarding him as part of the pack.

… And then he wondered if he had invited himself without being asked.

Adela threw the orange at him. His eyes narrowed when the projectile… _orange, it’s just an orange—_ he chastised himself in silence, for being too close to reflexively unsheathe his sword—flew at his direction. Tilting his head to shift his position for a nice catch, something felt stuck at the corner of his right eye that he had to pause for a while.

But those seconds mattered. It took only seconds for the thrown orange to reach him, and he made an “Ah…” sound out of reflex when the fruit bumped into the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry!” from across the dining room, even the snarky Adela gasped. First Helios hit him with the produce crate. Now she hit him with a fruit. Would the Black Knight be sorely annoyed, with or without Lene around, thinking that the staff had purposefully toyed with him?

Ares caught the orange, feeling his temples only to find his own hair strands there. He conveyed his gratitude in contemplation, because at least he knew it was just his hair, and not another wound. He peeled the fruit mindlessly, parting it in half. From under his lashes, he gestured to the sides, holding half of the orange up. “Lene. Your turn now.”

“Huh? I’m not Lene.”

Ares took his gaze off the ground at an instant. It was the barkeep, standing perplexed from behind the counter with confusion on his face while Lene, the intended person, just a few centimeters away from the barkeep. “… I am mistaken again?” he tried to keep his tone flat, but his own astonished expression betrayed his intent.

“Geez. Were you drunk or something?” the barkeep huffed. “Perhaps you need to lie down a little.”

“No. I do not drink this early,” Ares replied. “And I assure you, I am not sick.”

Lene watched the warrior. She gently shook her head, leaping over the counter again, crossing her legs casually. “I am here,” her voice was still cheerful as ever, but her expression was gentle. “Now you can give me the other half.”

“I suppose…” still confused, Ares simply handed the orange to her.

“Got it,” Lene remarked, unseating herself from the counter with a dancing movement which resembled a small hop. “Hey, why don’t we eat this together at the same time? One, two…”

“But Lord Bramsel!”

“… Huh?” Lene paused, and so did Ares. And their shares remained uneaten.

“Hmmm? But what? You should have known there will be no buts or ifs when I’m around, hahaha! Am I not making myself clear all these times, Madam?”

“Sure you do, milord. But you saw like I did; she is improper and unladylike.”

Everyone in the bar stopped working. It was truly Bramsel, dressed in his favorite exquisite purple robe. He casually walked into the bar, and his pupil dilated upon seeing the first people who graced his presence. “My, my, so the rumor is true? What do we have here, the Black Knight and you, my lovely!”

“I… don’t understand,” Lene muttered, darting a glance at Maeve. She spared the flirtatious barmaid a _look,_ which was so common each time an enamored person walked in like they were lovesick. Lene knew Maeve was rather… adventurous here and there, charming hearts, entertaining people with her witty chit-chats if not consoling brooding people. The dancer would have smirked if Bramsel was not in their presence at the moment—so _that_ was why Maeve tried to charm Ares!—she thought.

Maeve ought to mistake Ares’ legendary brooding manner as yet another somber man with life and broken heart problem, and so far those she managed to entertain had graciously returned the favor. That was how Maeve had more to spare whenever the younger girls in the bar were hungry. That was how Maeve gifted a younger Lene her first silk bolt, and that was how Maeve managed to buy Adela a better apron when the bar was in its struggling phase, just like how Lene was during her first determining years as an established dancer.

But Maeve slowly shook her head, mouthing a _no_ to Lene. The barmaid quietly made a slashing gesture over her neck, a follow-up which Lene understood as _too dangerous, I’m not playing with that._ Lene could only nod, frowning.

“People said lately the fearsome warrior could be found here,” Bramsel muttered, glancing around the bar. “Why, Sir Black Knight, with your reputation and track record, I did not suspect you to be a man of modest taste. Why don’t you come to my castle? I can use a strong man like you.”

“I am indeed a simple man, Count Bramsel,” Ares merely shrugged.

“You have been there once. I am sure you can attest to my exquisite tastes. You know me. I do not like second-grade quality when it comes to preferences. After all, I need to know where the prime goods are to be a great merchant, no?” Bramsel laughed at his own remark, as if knowing that people would concur as usual, anyway. Ares did not respond.

“I am sure you are good at what you do, Lord Bramsel!” Lene interjected, making her voice as cheerful and enthusiastic as possible. “If that is the case, then perhaps you can lower next year’s… taxes?”

Maeve clutched on Adela. And Adela put her arm over the barmaid’s shoulders. The barkeep drew a handkerchief to wipe his sweat. Did Lene just… gods, their dancer truly was fearless.

“You are a charming pretty little thing!” Bramsel responded, looking more entertained than actually understanding what the dancer tried to convey. “If I had no capital, I could not trade. If I did not bring in traders and investors, I can see this desert bumfuck-nowhereville would get worse,” like prior, he roared his laughter again, even though nobody else laughed with him. “Sure you do not want that, my flower.”

“No, my lord Bramsel,” Lene replied, more careful this time, although she still managed to maintain her professional, trained dancer smile.

“Good girl, good girl. You know, I have heard of you lately. I would not have thought in the middle of a scorching heat like this, a flower could bloom,” Bramsel now eyed Lene.

The dancer started feeling uncomfortable—his eyes sparkled like he truly just discovered a hidden gem, as if he was convinced her existence had been hidden from him deliberately like that. Lene wondered if Bramsel was just studying her face, perhaps wanting to see if she would react like other people—well, young, beautiful women he hired to entertain him at the castle. Even if Lene was to admit she came off pretty sharp in the first hello with him, nothing could dissuade her doubts to question whether Bramsel was actually looking at her or analyzing her… curves. She was not in her dancing costume; it was just a typical ivory day dress she had covered with a pink outer layer now that she left her mantle in the kitchen, hanging with Maeve’s and Adela’s. And she had to admit her dancing career did succeed to pave her a way to make a name of herself, for now nearly every Darnaian knew who she was, especially after the spectacular show with the cartwheel jumps she performed the other day.

“Some flowers persistently look upwards to find the scorching sun, my lord,” Lene replied, dropping herself for a small curtsy. “And I only have dancing, not the nobleness of such flowers.”

“Well, again, if the rumors happened to be true, I’d have to see that for myself!” Bramsel laughed again. Only then it crossed her mind that Bramsel took everything she said as an acknowledgment, not a suave way to subtly reject all the compliments. “Dear, I’m a merchant. I know a good one when I see it. And that includes this one,” he deliberately gestured at Ares. “How old are you again?”

“Twenty. Probably even twenty-one or so, I could not care less.”

“See! A grown man like you needs the Chief to tell what you do? Just come with me! If you still doubt it, I can put up a little show for you to showcase your prowess, Black Knight. After all, it will only do nothing but wonders to entertain me as well,” the ruler of Darna patted Ares’ shoulders again.

“I am a simple, _free_ man, yes,” Ares replied flatly, “but if there is something I do not do, one of them will be defining work arrangements.”

“Hah! Too bad. Well, one can only hope there will be a chance for that,” Bramsel laughed again. “Of course it will mean danger. But at the same time, knowing you will be there to answer it means the danger will be in danger! Hahaha! Come by if you like, Sir Black Knight. When I mentioned finesse, it is not only limited to prime-quality goods. Foods as well! And definitely you can have more oranges for yourself instead of sharing with the pretty dancer. Your name, beauteous darling?”

“Lene, my lord.”

“I shall remember. After all, it is hard to forget a rare flower that grows in this unforgiving place!” Bramsel nodded. “I’d be glad to have you entertaining in my castle later. I heard about you lately, imagine my grief as the ruler of this place but seeming to be the last to ever see you in person.”

Lene shrugged casually. “But now we met, my lord."

"Sure, sure. Ah, a thorny beautiful rose only makes one wants to carefully put it in his vase, for it usually produces the best, strongest fragrance which stands out like no other. I'll be looking forward to see your dances, dear.”

Bramsel left, leaving the awkward lady and her companion who previously gossiped about Lene and blatantly called her crude and improper in his presence. The lady, tried to maintain her dignity, hastily left holding her head high while Lene’s expression turned sour.

“It’s over,” Maeve sighed with relief. “Lene, I think Bramsel is interested in you…”

“I thought so. He took on me like he meant to do business, that I’m certain,” Lene bit her lips. “And I don’t care! If he truly wants me to entertain his guests in his castle, then business is business. Does Brambram pay well?”

“I heard he does,” Maeve replied slowly. “… What did you call him?”

“Brambram. His laughter was so loud and boisterous like chariot,” Lene huffed. “And I bet he never hears himself that way. Well, glad to know that he does, then. A girl gotta live, Maeve.”

“Sure,” Maeve said, “but be careful, I guess. Do not get close to the fire.”

“You did not take your own advice when attempted to seduce this one,” Lene chuckled, glancing at Ares. “And speaking of whom. Ares, let me see you a little bit! I’ve been meaning to, but the chariot came like a war wagon.”

“He is not _that_ feeble, you know,” Ares wanted to grin, feeling tickled by her… creativity. “I could see a horseslayer in his carriage. Nobody takes a special kind of weapon if they cannot use it.”

“I could not use that,” Lene pointed at her sword, behind the counter.

“You inherited it,” Ares replied patiently. “And it is understandable. You never had an instructor.”

“Now I have, though,” Lene grinned at him.

“I just know how to fight better than I know anything else,” Ares turned away, but she chuckled.

“See, he is so cute like that! And thanks for the orange.  Aldo is right, that was sweet.”

“I bet,” there was a satisfied devilish smirk on Adela’s face. “Although never once in my life I’d see someone undoubtedly call the Black Knight cute at his face.”

“I don’t have much choice here, do I?” Ares ruffled his own hair. The gesture he displayed might have showed an awkward frustration, but his eyes lighted a bit that anyone paying attention close enough should have seen that he did not actually sound displeased.

Lene watched Ares touching his hair. Like an artist who felt enlightened by a sudden inspiration they had waited for a while, the dancer clasped her palms together, making a soft clapping sound. “There!” her voice was lively like she just discovered a treasure or invented a new idea. “That is the root. Your hair.”

“… My hair?” Ares took his hand off his hair, staring back at her, perplexed.

“Yes! You are not unwell, neither is your skill deteriorating. It’s because…” she nodded, pointing at his hair with a smile. “… you need a haircut because your fringes got in the way!”

“Is that so?” Ares contemplated a strand of blond hair which he held in his hand. He sounded so relieved, perhaps for finally getting an answer and because she convinced him that he was not getting dull. Deep down, Ares felt amused and thankful at the same time. Right when he thought he had made a fool of himself today, she was the one coming with an answer.

“Right. This one right here gets too long!” Lene hopped on the counter again, studying him closer by tilting her chin so that she had a better view of him. Suddenly Maeve’s nickname for him crossed her mind, and she wondered where the sudden nervousness came from. Ah, there had to be from reading his body like that, right? She just noticed she had been too deliberate with him, right? … Right?

Regardless, she would not deny that he was blessed with alluring appearance, but even without the fine shoulder-length blond hair he possessed or piercing, alert eyes with a color matching his mane, there was always this distinctiveness in the way he carried himself. And perhaps that made him stood out to her, more so than his beautiful face ever did.

“Perhaps…” Ares’ words trailed.

“Eh—please don’t be offended, Black Knight. That’s our Lene, ever-honest and knows what she says,” the barkeep quickly seized a chance now that Ares appeared perplexed. “She means no malice. Because if she truly means it, she will not hesitate either!”

“What a curious way to be my diplomat, Uncle,” the dancer rolled her eyes.

“You are too blunt for your own good,” the barkeep chuckled. “I really can’t recall when the last time anyone ever posited such frank demand to Bramsel.”

“Then I’m glad, because he has to know,” Lene’s voice was firmly resolved now. “But the uncle is right, Ares! I was simply concerned since you kept getting hit in the same place, you know.”

“No,” Ares gently shook his head. “What you said is reasonable and I am not offended.”

“If that is the case,” Lene cheerfully winked at him, “I suppose I can offer you a service!”

* * *

 

Ares blinked.

He was close to pinch himself just to ensure that this truly was happening…

Lene had dragged the kitchen’s comfortable chair with a cushion to the backyard, under the nice bright sun which still did not yield although the seasons were changing and the nights were longer than the days now.

And he had nothing else to do besides following her.

“Come on, Ares, you can sit here,” she stated, which he obediently followed at an instant.

“Done. And…?”

“I’m giving you a haircut!”

Ares gasped.

But she simply giggled. “What’s wrong? You’ve never had your hair done before?”

“No,” he replied earnestly.

“It is alright,” Lene squeezed his arm softly, and Ares jolted, shifting his position. “… Ares?”

“… Ah. I’m sorry. It’s not that I did not want you to touch me, but…”

“It is alright,” she repeated calmly. “You know, I think I’ll call this the magic phrase. I’ll repeat it again and again until you know I do mean it.”

“I do not doubt you. It’s just…”

“If I repeat it again and again, you will be used it as well,” the dancer tried again.

“Alright,” Ares spared a reluctant smile. “There is something—something I need to tell you. I always do this by myself because that way I will not… hurt anyone, I guess.”

“Hurt anyone?” she raised an eyebrow. “Why, but it’s just a haircut!”

“Precisely. You know I’m alert all the time because I never let my guard down,” he continued, looking sheepish. He had always known his profession was unlike other typical professions out there, but only with her that he slowly realized the things others did at ease were just… never came in the same deliberate manner to him. There never was such a thing as ‘easy’. He kept his sword by his side all the time, and when he approached people, it was never without intention. And this intention most likely revolved around the two boxes labeled as being preyed or being spared. Likewise, by the time others approached him, he would have plans devised. Again with the two boxes; considering when it happened, usually those who approached him already had him marked.

And with her, things got rather confusing. Because she did not fit in either box. She was not ‘preyed’, nor was she ‘spared’ because even then the latter meant he deliberately let her live, which was not the case. She was just… there. She existed, orbiting around him, existing as part of the life he lived for now. She just… _be._ And he never had a category for that. For people like her. Then again, she was alone in that. And much to his surprise, it felt normal. While ‘typical’ was a common mood, ‘normal’ was not.

Some days he wondered if that caused him to stop scanning her, which felt like forever after the courtesy and kind acts she did him. Some days he wondered if his alertness indeed had dulled because of this ‘normal’ she displayed and generously treated him with. But some other days saw unsuccessful sneak attacks because he drove Mystletainn deep into his attackers’ lungs before they could even blink, and some other days he was certain some people were waiting to ambush him in his tent. Then he confidently threw a lance at a direction, creating a pool of blood as well as a foiled assassination attempt.

Then there was Lene.

“Mm-hmm. You are always alert. And what of it?” she asked.

“I usually would just slash the intended strands with my sword. When the night fell, alone behind a closed, locked door,” he went on slowly. That felt weird, confessing his grooming habit to her. Yet at the same time, it felt liberating. “When all business was done, when the day ended.”

“Hnnn. You do not use a pair of scissors or something?”

He shook his head. “It’s just my hair. I don’t care if it looks weird, hair grows anyway.”

“That is not what I wanted to know, Ares,” she flicked him in the nose. “Because sounds like it is a way to get cuts. Dangerous.”

“… Ah yes. That one definitely happened,” the sheepishness returned. “Because it would be dark and I could barely see my surroundings. And…” he inhaled when noticing her concerned expression. “… I had to do it that way. With the darkened room and the ungodly hour, people would assume either I was not inside or asleep. And most of the time the world was already sleeping when I did that.”

“Precautionary?”

He nodded. “I would only need one quick slash after all. … Yes, sometimes I missed, but then again, wounds heal just the way hair grows. It would be so late when I did that, and it would be so early when I shaved. I mean…”

“You got hit there a couple of times today,” she shook her head again, pointing where the blood dried. “At least if you got your haircut right now, it would not happen again in case you had to ride today.”

“No. Today I am free. I would always make it in-line with the missions I had to take.”

“Hnn~? Free today? Well isn’t that just convenient! Let’s do this while the sun is still up!” she smiled enthusiastically. “Besides, now that you are seated, I am _taller_.”

That one tickled all his sense more than the rest of her nose-poking, hair-yanking and other playful touches she ever did. Finally unable to resist making a light chuckle, he conceded. “Sounds like if I let you give me the haircut then I’ve satisfied your wish to tower over me.”

“Perhaps. Why don’t you find out like a cute obedient cub you are?” she chuckled.

“Cute obedient cub?” he grinned, “I think you confused me with… Eldie.”

“Bold of you to call Eldie obedient.”

“I guess,” his expression softened. “Still, I can’t take this offer. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous… how? Ares, it is just a haircut and nothing else. See, I have a comb here, borrowed from Maeve. And there is also this pair of scissors from the kitchen… clean, of course!” she lay down her arsenal before him. “No need to worry about your hair smelling like garlic.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “I appreciate your gesture, but approaching me from behind is… risky. Especially if you are to cover me. The sense of being incapacitated will only… fuel my reflex.”

“If you do not want me to do it, I will not force you,” she responded. “But if you said these all thinking I’m delicate, then I have to tell you… I am not. I am tough too, you see?” jesting, she flexed her arms again as if she meant to show off her muscles.

“I know,” he smiled faintly. “But what if…”

As always he found himself tongue-tied when she gently sealed his lips with her index finger. “You said wounds heal. We can try,” she spoke, determined. “At least this would save a night of you painfully trying to cut your hair in a dark room, possibly cutting yourself in the process.”

“I… see,” he mumbled. “You do have a… peculiar approach.”

“Hehe. You just realized it now? How slow,” she stuck her tongue at him. “Here’s the cover! And yes, it’s my sword’s wrapper. I figured if you are surrounded by the things you are familiar with, then you will feel at ease…” she walked to him, but he stopped her.

“I’ll put it on myself.”

“You sound nervous.”

“Admittedly,” the Black Knight nodded. “Because I’m afraid I can’t control what could have happened…”

“Then it means _anything_ can happen. Including for everything to work well for you,” Lene winked at him again. “I’ll tie your hair. We don’t want the rest meddles with the strands needing the cut! Besides, it seems your hair has asymmetrical, shaggy texture. I can imagine the strands may not be in the similar length altogether although they reach your shoulders.”

“You sound so… positively certain,” he replied, with a tempered expression. “And I guess so. Did not see much or pay immense attention when one cuts his hair with a sword.”

“We will get to that too if you want, but at a glance your hair looks fine,” the dancer waited for the warrior to drape the white cloth over him. He finally took the seat, looking straight up ahead and then upwards to see the sun was shining above them. She noted how self-conscious he appeared to be, basing her impression on the stern look on his face and the stiff body language as he posed himself to sit. He behaved like a person who secretly hated being painted, and she could not help but thinking how many times his opponents tried to ambush him so far—if not _when_ those instances took place.

Ares fidgeted under the cloth he wrapped his body with. His hand was idle, and he disliked that vulnerable feeling. He still had Mystletainn hanging on his belt, at his waist. But the cloth wrap gave him a feeling akin to being confined in a cocoon, and it was still uncomfortable despite knowing that Lene meant him no harm or that this was just a backyard of a bar, not a battlefield.

He subsconsciously made a claw with his dominant hand, feeling irked because his blade was not there. On top of that there was a thick layer of cloth barricading his movement…

“Mmm. I forgot something. I’ll get some water to sprinkle on your hair, Ares,” Lene contemplated after studying him again. “I’ll be back! Don’t worry, I won’t leave you hanging like that.”

“Water… for hair?” he muttered.

“Yes! For easier cutting, and that way we can see clear strands and roots so the haircut will not ruin your texture. Even if it’s only fringes. Or should I say, a small, non-invasive surgery,” she chuckled, turning her feet inside. “You never wetted your hair before cutting it?”

He shook his head.

“First time it is then~! I promise I’ll handle your hair with gentle care,” she delivered her response in a playful manner, making a delightful melodious humming as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Ares waited. He clawed on the sheet again, still feeling awkwardly uneasy with his predicament. His foot tapped lightly on the ground. He did not mind waiting on her. But if he had to do it while feeling disarmed and incapable to enact a movement as he liked it, somehow it felt… insecure.

Lene steered her paces back to the backyard. The waiters were splitting tasks; one was sweeping the kitchen while the other was sweeping fallen leaves at the backyard. “I’m back~!” her voice startled him so much that he jolted.

Lene saw it. _Ares is behaving like a... scaredy cat,_ she contemplated, suddenly feeling saddened by her own discovery. Determined to make things easy for him, she tried again. “Ares, look at those leaves!”

“Yes?”

He shifted his gaze at an instant, and Lene immediately regretted her move. He was even more alert now, and for a moment she would not doubt he could just leap off the chair, tearing everything apart if he suspected something was poking out of the pile of leaves Helios had set aside to throw away. “You see…” she started slowly, wondering how she could tone down that battle-hardened reflex.

“I see. Something happened?”

 _… No. Battle-hardened anxiety,_ she pondered again. Suddenly she wanted to change the cloth with a warm, warm blanket to cover him with. And perhaps making him a nice cup of chocolate with mint so he would feel at ease… “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she smiled at him, picking up a golden leaf from the ground. “Autumn does wonder to nature, isn’t it?”

He stared.

“Look, this one’s color is close to your hair color!” she sprinted enthusiastically to where he was seated, holding the leaf before his face.

“… I see,” that was the best comment he could muster.

“Now back to hair business,” she put the leaf on his lap, going in circular to move behind him. “Ares, I’ll need to tie your hair before we start. This is just a ribbon from the outer layer of my dress though, sadly!”

“So, not as soft,” he smirked—but not too long when he caught what the ribbon looked like. “… Frill…?”

“Mm-hmm. And lacey too. Look at this beautiful broken-white color!”

“… Hrrrhh. I yield.”

Lene giggled upon hearing him growl like that. Nonetheless Ares stayed seated obediently, looking as still and as a shadow if not stiffer than a tree log. For the dancer, somehow it was more relieving to see than witnessing him being so restless like a trapped, caged lion under the wrap.

She proceeded to take a step onward. Her hands moved, meaning to gather his locks as to assemble them into a pigtail so they did not get in the way of his fringes she would cut. She was just gripping a handful of hair amassed from the back of his neck, when…

Lene’s eyes were wide open.

She could feel a force coming at her.

The dancer reflexively closed her eyes thinking it was going to be a heavy blow, judging from the feeling as the power pulled her in. But there was no blow waiting to hammer her from the side—instead, she found herself being wrestled to the ground. Her body lost its balance, bending backwards in an awkward position as an arm gripped over the shoulder of her dominant arm, twisting her to the side. She felt herself being swept off the ground as a simple foot hook twisting into her ankle, and in a moment of panic she gasped, trying to find something to hang on to. But there was only vacuum around her, and the twist, with the hand’s death grip on her shoulder, made her movement to be at the mercy of her attacker.

_Attacker…_

She blinked.

It was Ares. It was none other than him.

Ares moved swiftly, tearing the cloth wrap off his body with one powerful yank. As the fabric fell to the ground she caught the look in his face—a ferociously ruthless one with narrowing eyes which bespoke wariness, like he was trying to locate a weapon on her or scan for a concealed one if he could not see it in broad daylight.

_Kill or be killed. Hunt or be hunted. Finish the fight before it starts._

However rather than the surprising move, it was his expression which shocked her the most. Gone was the kind Ares who would smirk when he bested her wits and jests. Gone was the Ares who would stare with an innocent, dumbfounded expression on his face like an astonished little boy when she introduced him to new things or what he considered as foreign to him. And definitely this one was not the kind of pretty boy who got hit by a fruit after bumping into a crate like a klutz. Gone was the—

She was too stunned to say anything, closing her eyes again when the ground was merely centimeters away from her horizon.

“… No…”

The force stopped. She slowly opened her eyes again, finding him kneeling beside her instead of the harsh, rough surface of the ground which waited to embrace her fallen body. Instead of locking her shoulders and attempted to throw her down, his arm now encircled her shoulders while another was positioned to hold the back of her knees so that she did not fall.

“What… have I done…”

That move sent a shockwave into her body, and only then she realized how grave the consequence could be—she would be landing head-first, face-flat on the ground, and with such distance and power nobody could guarantee if she would manage to survive in one piece.

 “I…” Ares held her still, heavily panting like an overwhelmed, exhausted lion.

Just then everything was clear to her.

Ares had stopped at the last minute, grappling with his own battlefield-forged reflexes and bloodlust. She had heard how invincible he would be when he had Mystletainn with him, conditioned to be in a battle, creating the persona of a Horseman of the Apocalypse who oversaw corpses as his blade drank on the blood. And perhaps that was it. Perhaps that explained the ruthless look he had on his face. Yet at the same time she wondered what kind of battlefields that turned a kind cat into a lion…

“I am alright,” she clutched on his arm. His hand was merely seconds away from drawing Mystletainn, for his palm now rested on the hilt of his sword. “Let’s do this again. You did not hurt me.”

“No. You damn well know I did,” he hissed under his breath, traces of a ferocious lion clear on his face. His belligerent tone surprised him, and in a manner akin to one who had a second bite at a food-tasting event, he repeated himself. “No—“

He slammed his own fist against his face.

“What did you do that for?!” she hastily picked herself up, examining him. Blood slightly oozed out of his nostril, which he merely wiped aside. “Ares?! Gosh, you injured yourself!”

“I shouldn’t… no, rather than that, _you_ shouldn’t …. Lene, I… am a threat to you.”

His voice trembled like a shaken porcelain under the magnitude of an earthquake.

“You are not! See, you are this cute cub with beautiful ha—“ she wanted to argue, but he shook his head, lifting himself off the ground. Offering a hand for her to stand up, he picked up the cloth wrap she gave him for the hair-cutting purpose. He looked somber, and his eyes conveyed a person who felt tortured by his own overflowing guilt-ridden sense…

“I tore this too.”

“Really? Let me see!”

Ares took a step back before handing her the fabric. She noticed. She was a great observer. The way he handed the fabric was a retreating manner; like he was afraid a beast he had confined behind him somehow managed to break its chains and went past him to maim her.

… Meanwhile he had to deal with his own astonishment while wrestling with the tempest inside his chest—why did she still sound so cheerful? Why was she smiling?! He was close to smash her against the ground! He also damaged her fabric, and the last thing he prayed for was for her ribbon to be spared.

“Ah, yes, you did.”

“See, therefore, I…”

“But it’s not like this one is torn into pieces. Can be sewn back, no worries! And we can continue because I can still drape this over you, and it will still cover you pretty nicely!”

“You are not… going to run inside or something?”

“Running inside? What from?”

“… Me?”

“No?” she huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Anyway, this may be a blessing in disguise, you know? Now that you tore this in two, you can move your arms easily when I drape this over you. And then…~!”

“Huh?” Ares blinked, finding her nodding with a triumphant smirk on her face, and her index finger poking on his nose.

“Got you. Now let’s continue doing this, otherwise it may rain again!”

Ares was taken aback. He thought he would scare her—no, it should be an understatement, because he could not think of anything else rather than having her despise him for now. But she still offered to cut his hair? And after nearly throwing her into the ground like a sack, she still—

Suddenly he felt there was a lump in his throat.

“… There is something I need you to know. About me,” he started. He regained his sense of self-control back, and yet despite the firm tone and coherency, he still felt bad. “It is not just Javarro training me to be a warrior. I subjected myself to various trainings and conditions to make me a… survivor,” he murmured as he began to make a return to the chair. “I neutralized a threat before it touched me.”

“I must have startled you,” she muttered.

He nodded. And he wished he did not. “I was aware you are just going to fix my hair. My body was... a different case, sadly,” he could not be diplomatic here. He could not. Not after throwing her off balance and treating her like one of the death-bringers he encountered. “And I just moved. If I waste time thinking, I _lost_.”

 _And perhaps it is easier, to silence your conscience every now and then. Not everyone who stands in a giant’s_ _shoulder likes what they suddenly see. I am a mercenary. Not a politician, nor am I a philosopher._

“That sounds… hard, Ares.”

“Not as hard when you are used to it. I guess,” he rectified himself with the addendum. “Many tried to ambush me, and those sneak attacks commonly aimed for my vital points.”

“So that means…”

“Yes. From the back of my head. From behind my back. Things like that.”

“You spoke of them like they were nothing…”

“But they were. I’m used to it. I expect it to happen, so such things barely surprise me anymore,” he said flatly. “… Although if I could bargain something, concerning what happened just now…”

“If that is the case, then I...” she fidgeted with her skirt.

“Go,” he nodded, gently gesturing to the door where the kitchen was. “I’ll be steps behind.”

“Hnnn. Are you used to finishing another person’s sentence even before they are done talking?”

“… Pardon?”

“I’m not done yet, you know?”

“Oh. Ah. Um—“

“What I wanted to tell you is that ‘then I am so sorry’, Ares!”

“… You are… sorry?” he paused, studying her closer. Was this a joke? But she looked _fiery_.

“Yes. I should be able to tell because you were so nervous, but I thought you were just being awkwardly shy because you never had another person handling your hair,” she bobbed her head, speaking like… chastising herself. And he could only stare, again dumbfounded, tongue-tied, thinking he had to mishear everything she said because… why?

… Only then he realized he should pay attention to what _he_ said. He should have known she harbored the most unpopular opinions about him, so knowing this, there should be no reason to doubt her .…

“I am sorry for accosting you,” she spoke again. “If you can forgive me, let me try again to amend that!”

Ares could only _stand_ agape _._ Oh did he stand, towering over her. That way he could see her expression and body language even more clearly, and he swore he really, truly, verily so—could not find anything which betrayed what she just conveyed to him.

“And you need to sit. I hate to say this, but I can’t cut your hair this way since you are tall.”

“I…” he was truly at a loss of words, shifting his gaze from her to the chair. From the chair back to her, and to the chair again, to her again, to the torn cloth in her hand, and back to her, to their surroundings around, and again, to her and her always. She was still smiling, waiting for him to retake the seat… the scissors were in her hand, and she simply patted her ponytail to cast a leaf which perched there when he threw her down. And she did not say anything about it.

“Like you said,” she held her hand to him, “the ribbon is safe.”

Ares could have sworn that he never thought he’d be so excited seeing a beautiful lacey broken-white ribbon as much as he was that day. “… Alright,” he murmured. His lips cracked into a tender, tender smile as his cotton candy-soft, soft gaze spared her once last look before turning back to the chair.

“Wait!” she followed, handing him the torn fabric. “You forgot this.”

“… Thank you,” he responded.

“Haha, why did you speak so softly like that?” she chuckled. “Let’s try again. I will tell you when I approach you. … Well, you always ask. I want to treat you right too! Ready?”

“Alright,” he repeated his reply, holding his breath. The dancer looked at him, but she did not say anything until he was finely seated.

“I am at the back of your right shoulder. If you would just turn your head that way, you can see me,” she started with consideration, hoping her voice did not betray her attempt to convey the thoughtfulness she wished to make him at ease.

“Yes,” he affirmed.

“The rustling sound just now is my dress. I am walking to you.”

“Okay,” he responded again. “Quick question—why?”

“Why what?” he could hear her sweet, light giggles from where he was seated.

“I am not known for being a hero. And they have every right to be afraid of me.”

“I bet the other warriors you defeated shaved. At least one person got to. You shave. So are others. Farmers, fishermen, nearly everyone else. When you see it, you and them are not so different, right~?”

“… I suppose, if you take it that way.”

“Hehe. Strange, I could have sworn I sensed you were smiling from here…”

“Dancing, waitressing, cooking, sword-training, feeding me unpopular opinions. Your hands are full, no need to add mind-reading to it, Lene.”

“Is that a warning?” she chuckled again. “I’m going to comb your hair a little bit, by the way!”

“Yes,” Ares made a sharp tone, “and be my guest.”

“Then you were smiling,” her cheerful tone serenaded the peaceful afternoon. “Does anyone ever tell you that your hair is very pretty? So lustrous like the morning light. I’ve always known you are kind.”

“You judged a person from their hair like that?” he could not resist the urge to chuckle as well. And he had to admit, her engaging him in a witty chit-chat and debate like that helped him to feel relaxed…

“Yes,” she replied, arguing for the sake of arguing, “along with other things. Like how they treat people who do not matter. Waiters, beggars…” she finished her last touch combing his hair, and now gathering his locks to drape them over his left shoulder, “… and dancers too. Not all of us are glamorous and rich!”

“Wrong. Dancers matter,” he countered swiftly, “… and so do these other people you mentioned.”

“Did you say that just to argue with me?” she laughed.

“Maybe,” he smirked, suddenly feeling thankful now that she could not see his expression.

“Then, about your hair,” she contemplated her view again. His hair was now neatly draped over his left shoulder. “Oh, Ares!”

“Yes?”

As always, the alertness returned. He turned around, facing her, ever ready for anything which she found disturbing. “Ahhh, sorry for startling you! I just realized something…”

“It’s okay. And what is?”

“You did not react when I draped your hair over your left shoulder!” she announced. “That means…”

“… You are stealthy?”

“No. I think it’s more that it’s less likely a threat to you when something does not hinder you!” Lene clasped her hands enthusiastically. “And this just made me aware of something. When I braided you, never once you made a move to attack me.”

“Hmmm. Now that you mentioned it…” Ares clasped his chin.

“I think your conscience can register that there is no danger—grave danger—when you do not find yourself confined. That way, your reflex is dormant,” Lene said, gently combing Ares’ hair with her fingers as she spoke. “See. All I need to do is making you feel safe and _aware_ that you are.”

“Do it,” Ares responded without hesitation. “Actually, do anything you please. I owe you a big one.”

“Then I will approach you from the front so you can see me!” Lene gave him a reassuring smile. “Hnn. You have fine hair. And the length is midi, should I say, if you want to use clothing approach.”

“I do not speak fashion, Miss.”

“It is just at that kind of mid-length hair, not too long, but not short either. Our target is your fringes. You have this side-sweep hairstyle, and with that length, you take your strands with you when you turn around,” she explained. “You did not know that, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“I figured,” her eyes sparkled. “Then I’ll have to braid you again this time. Just for this one! That way the rest of your hair will be neatly tied, leaving us purely your fringes to cut.”

He did not protest when she began arranging his hair. Her hands moved nimbly, parting his strands into three and began weaving them into a braid. Ares could not care less if she accidentally pulled his hair or anything, but she did his hair meticulously. It almost seemed that she treated his hair the way she would her own—with appreciation and gentleness. She still did not say anything by the time the short braid was done, and he did not make a face or utter a protest when she secured the braid with the lacey ribbon.

“Done?” he asked.

“Done!” she nodded. “Now the actual haircut.”

“I see…” he twirled the braid.

“You look amazed,” she commented, observing him.

“I am. How did you do this? And not only that—so quick and so neat too.”

Lene paused. She could not believe her ears—the warrior with various knowledge of warfare and survival skills was praising her because he was so impressed by… her hairstyling? And a simple braid? “Ares, it’s only a braid,” somehow her soft tone was confined in her throat.

“And I can’t do it. I imagine a beginner will make it messy. Doesn’t this make you an expert?”

“You are too kind,” she whispered.

“… Ah. Pardon, did you say anything? I did not catch it.”

“No. I did not,” Lene pursed her lips, hiding her face from him. “Now I’ll sprinkle some water, comb those fringes, and cut it.”

“And that will be all?”

“With a little bit more combing and drying after that, yes. We want it tidy enough so that it will take a while until you need to do this again,” she replied, taking his curiosity one by one, with the unchanging gentle patience. _A lion they said,_ she mused, _but is it possible for a lion to be this innocent?_

Ares stayed completely still while she sprinkled some water over his fringes. Combing them down once more, she pulled the cloth wrap higher, leaving enough room for Ares to move his dominant hand from the gap where he tore the fabric. “Thank you,” he made a simple comment. There was no confining fabric covering his right hand, and he found himself much, much relaxed compared to prior. He clenched his fist, released it, and did it again before finally resting his right hand on his knee.

“Of course,” Lene smiled, noticing how his hand was not perched on Mystletainn, and somehow it made her utterly happy. “I’ll approach you from your right side to cut your fringes.”

“This is happening,” Ares inhaled, anticipating.

“Yes. I’m doing it now!” Lene responded.

Ares sensed her movement. He could hear the rustling sound of her dress again, and with it he pictured she was just a few steps away from behind. Her steps were louder than usual—regarding that, he could not judge whether she was just eager to proceed with the haircut or purposefully made them loud enough to prevent him from feeling unnerved.

And Ares realized he had been used to identifying footsteps, which, often times when he was in a mission would be either too faint, or too loud signifying the opposition party was heading towards him in a big group. He made a mental thank you note because what he experienced just now only lengthened his list of things Lene did which gave him a sense of… commonness. _Normalcy._

“Ares, it is me! Stay still now, it begins!”

He heard her. But at the same time he also saw the scissors in her hand—its twin blades shining under the sun, and those parts were heading at his direction. To the area around his face. Near his temple. And…

Lene froze. She could not say anything. There was not enough time for her to utter anything, anyway—anything, anything at all even something so simple like a squeal. For a moment she realized it was a life and death situation, with one person living while another getting a fatal stab wound in the neck.

The scissors fell to the ground, its metal blades collided with each other, making a clanking sound.

… And Ares stood in disbelief…

“I truly am… hopeless,” he muttered, looking so pained. It happened again. The scissors triggered his self-defense reflex, and his body reacted before he could stop it. The moment Lene approached him, he seized her, halting her movement by forcefully tilting her chin upwards as his hand strategically griped on her neck. The movement was indeed meant to halt an ambushing opponent, and Lene could not hold the scissors any longer when his other hand simultaneously flew to twist the opponent’s hand… _Lene’s, dammit, you savage scum!—_ he cussed himself.

In a fight, he would have disarmed his opponent because he rendered their sword arm useless.

… In life, what actually happened was a repeat of a disgraceful act—according to his own words.

Lene tumbled. Picking up the scissors near to where she landed, she coughed softly. “We will do this again and I’ll make it so that the blade hands pointed downwards, Ares.”

“No…”

“Hmmm? The sun is not setting yet, and that is good!”

“I said don’t!”

She stopped. He just bellowed at her.

“… I…” he was close to ruffling his mane in frustration, but the braid peeking from his shoulder cancelled the intention. He would not ruin that one as well. Not after giving her hell like this. “Stop. Please.”

“That is your anxiety speaking, Ares.”

“I know. But what I actually mean does not matter. Not in exchange of your safety,” he helped her standing up again. “I can’t deal with a similar incident for the third time, Lene.”

“Then we will make it so that there is no third time,” she nodded again, her gaze remained firm, her eyes resolved. “… Actually, no. _I_ will make sure that it will not happen again.”

“I should be the one saying that, don’t you understand?” he stretched his arms. Frustrated.

“It’s alright, Golden Kitty,” she smiled, softly running her fingers over his braid. “It is alright. You will get through this and then you can have all the haircuts you desperately need.”

“I hurt you!” he protested. What would it take for this girl to eventually realize his name lived in infamy with a reason?

“Disagree,” she gently shook her head again. “If you truly are beyond saving, I would have died.”

_Ah—_

“You stopped yourself before you got to make your finishing blow, did you not?” she smiled again. “So, on the contrary, I think—I think even your conscience is starting to… _accept_ my presence.”

Ares stared at her, wide-eyed. “If the barkeep keeps… a chain, I suppose—“

“No, Ares,” she squeezed his arm. “Chains are for beasts.”

“… Even if I’m a dangerous, murderous lion?”

“A lion is not a beast,” she responded, ushering him back to the chair. “It is a king of a realm with a populace to rule and govern. Someone who is aware of who he is.”

_Eh—_

“Geez, you are brooding again. If you want to murder someone, then let me help you murdering those pesky fringes!” she chuckled. “Today your hair is my hostage. Now, let’s devise a plan to execute it.”

“I heed your command. The plan?”

“Ares, I’m not your battlefield commander…”

“Huh? Ah. Oh! You are right. Requesting for apology.”

“Haha, it’s alright!”

“Concurred then.”

“Ares…” she shook her head, laughing now that he spoke so formally to her like that. “Still you have a keen alertness and a sharp sense, I’m thinking of another thing then. Perhaps if you keep seeing me, then you will be more at ease.”

“… But if you get any closer and I—like prior…” his voice was heavy.

“We need to try. If the old way failed, then it’s time to chance on the new one, right?”

“True. But—“

“There will be no danger! Heed your commander,” she nodded earnestly.

“Accepted,” his phrasing just came out… automatically.

“Good! Now stay still, Golden Kitty~!” she moved closer. And Ares had clutched his own wrist with a death grip. No way he’d let this slide for the third time. No way. And not to Lene. Never her—

“… Lene?”

“Hnnn~?”

“What… are you doing?” he stared, bewildered. The dancer pulled the ribbon which held her ponytail in its place. Although he secretly thanked the gods for the beautiful scenery his eyes were treated to, he still could not fathom why she did that.

Lene let her hair loose, smoothing her silky green strands, all the while maintaining a smile for him. “Watch,” she muttered, as her fingers set sail into her hair, parting her own strands into three, and…

“… A braid…?”

“Indeed~!” she giggled, nicely tying the weave with the ribbon. A sweet braid now framed her beautiful face, and Ares did not know if he should thank the gods or punch himself for being a fool first. “Look, this one looks like yours, isn’t it?”

“It can’t be. That is dishonesty.”

“Dishonesty?”

“Because that one is very cute,” he stared at her braid, gluing his eyes onto it like he was examining a truly-very-important-something. “… I don’t see any similarities here. Did I miss anything? … Oh—“

“Yes!”  Lene smiled, her pleasant laughter felt like ringing bells in his ears. She held a handful of blond locks in her hand, while the other hand still clutched on the scissors. “I figured if I just came from the front like this, your reflexes will not register it as a threat. I’ve yanked your mullet. Braided your hair. I noticed if they shared similarities, it would be straight upfront and not stealthy.”

_CHOP!_

Ares stared, bedazzled.

“That’s…”

“Your fringes! Want to make an eulogy?” she jested, chuckling even more joyfully.

“… So the bastard is finally… dead?”

“Very dead, I assure you~!”

“Burn them.”

“… Ares?”

“Just to  make sure they truly are.”

“… Ares.”

“I just—got my first… haircut. I mean. Haircut done by someone else.”

“Verily so!”

“And you look… so happy?”

“Very true!”

“… That has to be because I did not attack you, right?”

“Very much WRONG!” she cackled, poking him in the nose. “Because I _know_ I am right.”

“No, you are not right. I told you, your braid there is much pre—“

“… Why did you stop?”

“I don’t know.”

“How weird! Is it because you think your braid is cuter?”

“Definitely not. Such idea is blasphemous.”

“… What?”

“Anyway,” he waited patiently as she began applying finishing touches. Was that an overheat because they exposed themselves under the sun or something? Why the _hell_ he would be so tongue-tied just because she braided her hair? Of course he had seen braids. Even that flirt demon Maeve braided her hair sometimes. Some of his comrades also braided theirs, but he could not care less either way.

Perhaps Lene was a black mage without realizing it? But she stated it again and again that she did not do magic. Yet the barkeep previously mentioned a thing or two about the ‘Lene Effect’ because people queued for his lemonade like it was a  witch’s love potion, so…

… So Lene was not a black mage, but a witch?

Ares scratched his forehead. This was too confusing. Better stick around her more, he supposed.

“Anyway, it is dooo~ne!” she announced cheerfully. “Congratulations! You did it!”

“You did it.”

“Hnnn~? But you did it! Ah. Want to keep that braid?”

“NO, thank you.”

“There you are, brooding again…” she untied the ribbon, and it did not take long for his hair to return to its initial state. “How is it?”

“… The sky is… clearer…”

“Then I guess it works nicely!” she smiled, motioning her hands to undo her braid as well.

“Keep it.”

“The braid?”

“Of course. It has to be black magic,” he huffed, steering his paces inside to return to the kitchen.

“I assure you, Sir Ares, I’m no black mage,” she responded sweetly whilst smacking him on the head.  

“Then why do I want to look at it again and again?” he remarked innocently, earning a second smack from her. But as they continued their usual banter, those voices could be heard again from the outside.

“She is so deliberate with him, isn’t she? Young women today have no manners.”

“What will her parents say, engaging a man so freely like that?”

“Sssh. I heard she’s got no parents.”

“Oh, that explains so much. Girls like that, acting wild and then cry wolf when—”

“Right? What do you expect from a girl who sits cross-legged and on a table and makes a split in male presence? Let alone him. How brazen, does she not realize who he is? His money is blood money!”

“Young women today have no moral compass indeed… doing everything just for—“

“Excuse me.”

“Sssh.”

“Sssh, it’s him.”

“Excuse me, Mesdames. It seems you dropped something…”

“And that would be what, Sir Black Knight?”

“Some manners.”

“… Gasp.”

“Ares,” she pinched him. “Feel free to attend my dances, Mesdames! Bring your grandkids too—“

“G-grand… kids?! What, I’m not even fifty yet!!”

“D-do we look so old or what?!”

“I can’t believe it. I need to check.”

“Take me with you!! So brazen, uncouth, unladylike!!”

“They are gone…” Lene watched in astonishment. “I did not even mean anything. They did look… overcompensating. And they’ve been around being like that so I thought…”

“What even is that about? Sometimes kids are here during dinner,” Maeve clicked her tongue. “Which explains why we maintain our small milk stock. How can old married women be so vicious like that?”

“They have husbands? Unbelievable.”

Everyone gasped in horror, staring at Ares.

“What?” he asked again, still with the same innocence and blunt honesty the bar workers had grown to… adore.

“Interesting. Don’t worry, Little Lene. Even the flirt demon does not serve bigots,” Maeve winked again. “Wow them with your dances! If Bramsel could get off his high horse and did us a catastrophic favor by bringing himself to this suburb area, bitches-witches are easy.”

“You are valued,” Ares stated in a deadpan manner.

“Of course she is, Sir Black Knight. I did not know what wild act you both attempted to try at the backyard with that chair, but I assure you, if you ever go so rough and coarse that she could barely walk like that, I’ll castrate you and feed you the remains!”

“M-Maeve…” Lene felt like she’d rather disappear into the corner of the earth at the moment. She should have clarified that she was cutting his hair… then his sweet reflexes kicked in… ah, but that would add another reason to frighten the whole bar!

“You really make the best out of everything, don’t you, Sir Black Knight?” Adela chimed in, looking concerned. “I was joking that they could use that chair with a cushion since we used the wooden stool,” she explained to Maeve. “And I have no idea what is it with these goofballs and ribbons.”

“So, what happened?” Maeve folded her arms, looking at Ares.

“Hmmm?” the Black Knight flashed a feral smile, closing into Maeve, whispering in her ear. “Miss Maeve, is it? … Well. Don’t you want to know?”

“Y-you! Why—t-the voice—“

Ares made a low, husky chuckle. “Something wrong? I assure you, Little Lene is fine.”

“A-aaah,” Maeve gasped. “Goshdangit. I’ll get you later when you pick up your milk, Sir Black Knight.”

Ares chuckled. “We both have our respective reputations, Miss Maeve.”

“He looks… so happy,” Adela muttered haplessly.

“And _even more_ dangerous that way,” Maeve sighed. “I thought my soul left my body.”

“Oh, nooo, you are defeated. Come here, I have a friendly consolation kiss,” Adela smirked. 

* * *

 

Lene shook her head, smiling. Ares was still Ares after all, she mused. And the warrior was about to leave now, her glance darted on the counter. “Ares, hey, hey! Wait! Leaving already?”

“Ah, yes. Need to check if I have a mission left. One can never be too certain.”

“Then have more pear slices!”

“Uh—thank you, I guess?” he poked a slice with his fork. “But why? Is it because I assassinated Maeve?”

“Oh, Ares. Sure not,” she giggled. “I just want to say… thank you…”

“I don’t understand,” Ares took a bite. “… Sweeter than the one I had prior. Same fruit?”

Lene nodded.

“Here, have some too if you don’t believe me,” he handed a piece on his fork. “… Right?”

“Mmm. Huh? You’re right. Interesting,” Lene muttered. “Here, try again.”

“… Even sweeter this time. This… is not poisoned, right?”

“Sure not!” she feigned huffing. “You did not have to, but you stepped in my defense just now. I mean, those aunties…”

“I simply thought… those are not the very nice to hear,” he munched on the pear. “And you showed me again how… kind you are. I just don’t like it when people are cruel to you like that.”

“Hnnn~? Ahhh, you are so cute!!”

“… What’s so cute about that?”

“I wonder,” Lene grinned mischievously. “But really though, all jokes and sasses aside, there’s truth in what they said. I have to admit, I’m not polished nor refined like those proper ladies. And well, yeah, I’ve got no parents anymore. It did not really feel… hurt. Perhaps because—“

“No.”

“No?”

“First of all, who cares. I’ve never had a refined lady insisted giving me a haircut just because she caught me bumping in the same place again and again,” his words were firm. “And you split, sat cross-legged on the counter. And the sun still shines. So?”

“Ares.”

“And I assure you, this thing about being ladylike is plain wrong because there will always be another person who will be worse than you when it comes to that.”

“Eh—I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not comfortable if you are going to praise me by comparing me with… other women…” she quickly cut in.

“… Other women?”

“Yes? That’s what you thought, right? Or did you mean to drop a name? Uh—sorry, that sounds… worse.”

“… What other women?”

“Wait. You did not—compare me with other women?”

“Yes? I’m not thinking of other women or whatever it is you imagined me to do,” he stated, again in the same innocent blunt honesty which caught people off guard. “What I mean is me.”

“… You?”

“Yes. Because no matter what you do, I’ll be worse since I’m not ladylike, isn’t it?”

“Ares—oh—my… _gods_ ,” she gasped.

“Brazen, uncouth—well, I am a contender. And I’m like this. I will not come close to being ladylike.”

“ARES—I mean—“

“What?” he finished his tea. “Ladylike simply means resembling a lady or something like that, I take? What a weird concept. Someone tells me she is a woman, a woman it is then to me. Then by this definition all women are ladies. And since you all are, how are you going to be ladylike? You already are.”

“Gods—“

“… You are laughing.”

“Hilariously so.”

“Are those tears on your face?”

“Yes.”

“Is this what that wild act Maeve said?”

“What? No!!”

“… You laugh again.”

“Gods—I mean, how could I not?!” Lene threw her head back and forth, her face was all read with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Maybe autumn is your season after all. Your hair matches the falling leaves. Your eyes match autumn skies.”

“… A tree.”

“Tree?”

“You. Green hair,” he pointed. “… _Braided_ green hair.”

“Thank you very much, I’ve always known! It’s not like neighboring kids already did not make themselves clear to me about it when I grew up!” she stuck her tongue at him. “I’ll just bask in the fact that my hair resembles my mother’s.”

“I don’t mean that, Little Lene,” Ares let out a series of gentle chuckles. “Tree. Reminds me of… spring.”

“… Spring…?”

“And spring is life,” he went on. “… And salvation. Perhaps hope. Well, winters are unforgiving. Springs are warm, aren’t they?”

Lene could only… _stare._

“Is something the matter?” the Black Knight dropped his chords again, even lower than he did Maeve, and definitely much, much more tender than the tone he used on the barmaid. Pushing the pear plate to her direction, he _smirked._ “Want to finish it? I've got enough sweets for the day.”


	20. Overwhelmed

Nobody dared to look at him that day.

 

The sky had turned colors, leaving remnants of afternoon sun rays peeking from between the clouds. People could be seen concluding their activities of the day, with some closing a store and another riding a cart with godlike speed with a piling load.

And then there was him.

Pacing the street that evening, his somber brooding look contrasted the bustling lively view around him. His calm footsteps hardly made any noise as he braved the evening crowd. He did not appear to be in a hurry, yet as always he took long strides as if he was about to stealthily pounce against an opponent.

“Last one, last one before closing! Leftover carrots!”

He tilted his head, finding a vegetable counter trying to secure a last-minute buyer. He would have thought that the people who poured to the streets that evening would pay no attention to him considering the busy atmosphere, but boy did he gravely mistake it.

He was just about to continue scrolling when people turned their heads at his direction, and that very second he could not escape. Their eyes pierced him warily, and he found the crowd quickly dispersed along with every step he took.

“That’s the Black Knight,” he caught some whispers. “… He is even scarier in person…”

He instantly looked around when he heard his name being called. Typical of him—ever-alert, ever-steeled, ever guarded. People gulped when his eyes searched around. Copper eyes grazed against his surroundings as his hand reflexively went to feel the Mystletainn at his waist.

“Careful, tone down your voice,” other whispers successfully silenced the rivaling ones.

Ares exhaled, making a mental note that everything was clear and there was no need for him to be alert. Dozen pairs of eyes followed his every movement meticulously, as if they were waiting something to happen. It was not that he actually liked being stared at, but if anything he learned throughout these years as a feared mercenary warrior, whether he was silent or not never mattered because he would draw a crowd as likely as he would disperse one when he passed by.

“Look Ma, a sword!”

“Hush!”

Ares glanced at the source of the voice. A cradled baby pointed at Mystletainn. He mumbled gruffly, fixing his cape to shield his sword from plain view, secretly regretting how the killer weapon had to meet the innocent eyes of an innocent person. Tugging on the rein, he commanded his mount to follow him so his little market stroll would be over in no time. Alas the horse got distracted by a pile of leftover carrots at the vegetable counter, sniffing them.

Ares pursed his lips, clicking his tongue. He would not lie that he was slightly irritated. He just wanted to return to his mercenary headquarter, handing the payment of the day to Javarro, and probably taking a bath, feeding his cat as he would also unwind by eating his dinner before taking care of the mount.

“Come on. Don’t be so spoiled, you are a war horse,” he muttered to his mount.

The black horse sniffed the carrots instead, and as annoyed as he was for being made to be in the crowd longer than he anticipated, he secretly liked the defiance his own ride displayed to him. Right when others dispersed to avoid him—yet with the deferring, subdued manner in their eyes.

They made him feel like a conqueror and he found himself still not used to it.

“I’ll get you the carrots, brat. You win,” Ares sighed, running his fingers across the horse’s mane. He barely conveyed “Excuse me,” as he lingered closer to the vegetable counter, but the owner, lowering his head so that their eyes did not have to meet, already handed the leftover carrots at the counter, all neatly bundled in a sack.

“Carrots, Sir Black Knight?”

Ares could have sworn the shop owner would have knelt before him if the counter and small space did not make it impossible to do that. “How much?”

“T-that is a joke, right?”

“What?”

“You wanted the carrots for your horse, didn’t you?”

“I’m not a bandit!” Ares growled. Why the hell did this happen again and again? Was it so weird that he would purchase what he asked, just like any normal person would? “… Just mention the price, please,” he quickly retorted, toning down his voice when the shop owner tumbled back in fear.

“I angered him! Gods, spare me, I angered him!!”

Ares stared dumbfounded as the owner fled, leaving an unattended counter with a bag of carrots before him. He could feel people’s stares once again—this time at a distance. Again, they were waiting in anxious anticipation to see what might unfold, how he might react, and what fate awaited the unattended carrots. Shaking his head, the warrior ushered his mount away from the counter. When the first evening breeze slapped his face, only then he realized something. Some rancid smell fondled his nostrils, leaving traces of nauseating trail to people around him.

His lips pursed again, forming a bitter smile.

… He had forgotten that his black clothing was heavily stained with blood.

* * *

 

“Thank you for having me. Looking forward to hearing the good news, of course,” smiling politely, she made her way out of the castle compound. A guard rushed to follow her, and she gave a dignified look as she nodded slightly to convey her gratitude because the guard opened the door for her.

“Walking home?”

Lene turned around, finding a group of people lingered by the fireplace. She did not want to admit it, but despite the tacky décor and insensible vivid colors, Bramsel did his best to make his home castle a comfortable place to live in. The fireplace was burning with what looked like an infinite supply of coal common Darnaians almost could not afford anymore, and there were comfortable leather sofas coated with fine velvets for guests to seat themselves if they so wished. And invited guests would not waste a chance to take advantage of these facilities, including the group who just addressed her—two bejeweled, sophisticated women, and a dandy man who dressed as elaborative as Bramsel’s bespoke fashion choices.

“Yeah,” she gave a simple reply, faintly smiling again.

“Poor you. You should treasure your legs, you know,” one of the women cooed.

“Thank you,” Lene still maintained her trained polite smile as she drew closer to the front door. “And I do.” She had no idea what irritated her more—the way those sophisticated entertainers spoke to her, or the way their eyes stripping every layer of her dignity to make her feel so insignificantly small.

In the morning she had received a sudden invitation addressed to her to the bar. The card only bore a simple message—that she had been cordially invited to Bramsel’s castle, because the lavish count was thinking of selecting some entertainers for the upcoming season. She caught his little personal note and signature in the card, simply telling her that it would be great if the castle could have a feel of something fragrant considering the infertile desert and cold weather lately.

Lene had to cancel her performance for the day. Winter had seen more relaxed dance calls, and with prices going up she was hoping to make some extra money until it was warm enough for people to watch her dances again. The barkeep and other bar-workers had been kind to her so far, but it did not ease her doubts whether she was taking her own friends’ livelihoods just so the barkeep could make a room for an extra slot to fit her in. She would just agree to take the meager wage the barkeep spared for her, understanding that she was just an accidental seasonal substitute and did not want to create a strife by taking what was supposed to be another person’s right.

Bramsel did not come off as savory to her, but even the most ardent hater would begrudgingly admit that if he fancied something, he knew how to strike a good deal. The idea of getting paid above average itself was enough for her to fulfill the invitation—besides the fact that it was the count of Darna himself who asked of her.

 _As if one ever truly had a choice,_ Lene confined her thought in silence. Perhaps everything would be easier if she was rich, but to get there she had to earn money first.

What she did not expect was it was nothing but a mundane chit-chat session, or as a maid who brought her in said, an audition. Something everyone else seemed to be aware of.

Everyone, but her.

She only packed a better dancing costume with her, thinking dancing was all she would be asked to do. She hardly had a decent riding suit, so all she did was changing into one of the better dresses she saved for special occasions and put on her mantle to go with it.

Lene bit her lips. Most of her clothing money went to costume accessories. The last fortune she spent was on the mantle, and if she had enough money to tailor a riding suit she would rather split the budget for everyday-dresses. She secretly enjoyed the fact that she did not have a horse on her own because at least she did not need riding suits and different shoes to accompany them. With legs needing to be taken care of, riding in a closed carriage would only need her to put on thicker clothing and most of the time carriages already had a blanket or leg covering set inside to combat colder weather.

“Nobody picked you up?” the dandy man chimed in. They had introduced him as a genius violist, the fact that she could hardly care at this point. He presented himself as a musical genius, and in a not-so-subtle manner conveyed to the entertainers how lucky they would be to have him serenading on the stage.

“No,” Lene’s voice was rather curt now. In her life she had seen men who were too full of themselves, probably more often that she wished. If Bramsel wanted to hire her to dance, she would do so professionally, and collected her payment right after the curtains were drawn if necessary.

But she did not come to play. She did not want to be other people’s black sheep or sweet summer-child for others to measure themselves against. As much as she had no interest in competing against anyone, she wanted to be there as a fellow entertainer, not a pitiful young woman who had come to beg for a couple of coins from the luxurious castle.

Lene shrugged. She had her dancing. And throughout her harsh life or Darna’s unforgiving living condition, she always relied on herself that she was optimistic she could survive another winter. If Bramsel only wanted her as a décor, then…

Her dances were negotiable. Her person was a different case. And Bramsel was never her only client.

“Poor girl,” the self-proclaimed gifted violist made a gesture like he just suffered a headache. “And you came here walking as well?”

“You are so kind,” Lene contained her bitterness in her throat, clutching on the cloth bag she had with her. Before these sophisticated, literally-decorated entertainers, everything she had on her appeared like a beggar’s attire; a homeless person who carried what little they had with them. “I can fetch a carriage once I get to the main road. Couldn’t let the _invitation_ from the ruler slide, you know?”

“Invitation,” one of the bejeweled women narrowed her eyes.

“Yes. I was a bit late to pick it up because it got lost in the cards…” Lene casually waved her hands. It felt so catty, feasting over the jealous stares of the other entertainer—courtesan—whatever, at this point none of them mattered to her anymore. Bramsel could have whatever entertainment he wanted, but if she was to be insulted this way then the good news was she never sought for the count’s approval or compliments in the first place. If the world attested to her dancing prowess, if it led her to Silvia’s footprints…

She could barely choose anything, and it was only understandable to protect the little freedom she had. Dancing was her ace card, and nobody would take it away from her.

“I was just wondering, since you looked so…” the woman looked like she was close to mutter a word neither of them would not be pleased about, and diplomatically changed course. “… Unprepared?”

“I expected to dance this evening,” she shrugged, but her eyes sharply darted at the guard. “I did not know it was a friendly chit-chat night. I left the stove on.”

The woman scoffed. “You can’t be serious, little sis.”

“I’m meticulous, Madam,” Lene delivered her sharp response… politely. “That is why I spent my days dancing and practicing instead of neglecting the two and basking in the tangible materials.”

“Such a lioness, aren’t you?”

Lene chuckled. Daintily saying she was merely a dancer from the rural area of Darna, she turned her attention to the guard, whom by then slipped an envelope to her on behalf of Bramsel.

 _Would be glad to see you in costume, dear._ _I’d like to see intense totality in you._

Leaving the castle after being close to committing a murder, Lene clutched the envelope, hearing the clinking sounds of heavy coins colliding against each other. She had no idea how much Bramsel had put in the envelope, but one thing she was sure of was that she did not catch similar envelopes in the hands of the other invited entertainers.

Loading herself into a carriage she managed to fetch near the main road, she sighed. She felt like she could use the coins to treat herself after returning from the wolf’s den in glory—if not praising her own decision not to change into her costume unless the dance was about to start.

* * *

 

Ares cussed.

Oh did he cuss. Taking a refuge at a desolate aisle, Ares somberly yanked his cape off him. The black color helped hiding all the blood stains, but the smell was still there, and those botched patches made it harder for him to try fooling anyone. At least he knew what happened to his clothing, and he found himself trapped between unpleasant options.

Should he wait until the sky was dark, people would get the wrong idea about him. Lurking at the street with a gloomy look and brooding demeanor, people would have thought he was out hunting for blood. Should he try to blend with the crowd… well, he thought people would be busy enough to notice he was lingering around. Seemed it was not the case and whatever he planned for was ruined.

Perhaps it would be better if he played along, taking advantage of their fear. That way they would not bother him, and people would disperse without a prelude. Parents would hide their children away as houses slam their doors shut as he approached closer.

Of course it was not really nice to hear someone shouting “Hide your women, he is coming!” as he strolled. As much as he wanted to assure people that such thought never crossed his mind even once, he basked in the fact that it meant he would not be bumping into people and scared them even more.

Ares pursed his lips again. How ironic it felt having to scare people away in order not to deal with them prostrating to him in fear. What a weird, weird world…

“W-who goes there?”

Ares sharply turned around. From where he stood, he could see a boy anxiously griping a pitchfork, approaching the back aisle. “Relax, kid. I mean no harm,” he replied, straightening his back to assume a standing position, which completely revealed himself then.

“T-that cannot be true. Nobody lingers at the back alley after dark,” the boy muttered. “G-go. Or—“

Ares blinked. The kid lunged at him, and for a moment the smell of blood coming from his clothing was overpowering him. The familiar unpleasant smell started to numb his senses, and again he was close to unsheathe Mystletainn from his waist. “Valid point, but put that down,” he glared at the boy.

_… I smell blood…_

“Just go… you are suspicious!” the boy squeaked, trying to force a thrust against him.

_No, Mystletainn. Not this time._

Ares dodged. The thrust could only catch a wind, and he firmly planted his palm against the child’s back collar to prevent the latter from falling onto the ground. “Oi. Suspicious or not, that was dangerous.”

“Y-you are…!”

Ares sighed. The boy trembled where he stood, white in fright for seeing him drenched in blood; his blond hair glistened under the moonlight as his eyes scanned the pitchfork. His mind went to hours away before the sky went dark. Of group of people surrounding him, of the curses and messages they whispered while Mystletainn dined on them. The sudden hollowness he felt inside as the crowd subsided, either fled or dead. A pool of blood at his feet. And…

“You will not take down anyone that way, kid,” coldly he picked up the pitchfork and returned it to him. “… Unless you take advantage of their blind spot and aim where they less expect it, like their kneecaps.”

“T-then why…” the boy clutched the pitchfork tightly, nearly tumbling on his feet when Ares glanced at him. “Y-you are the Black Knight. I heard people whispering to say you are.”

“Because I want you to stay alive,” the warrior’s placid tone successfully silenced the boy. “And I am.”

The boy contemplated the pitchfork in his hands. “… You smell like a corpse.”

“… A pile of it,” Ares nodded. Although his tone was deadpanned, his body language was hesitant.

“You must have caught them in the kneecaps too,” the boy murmured. “A pile of them.”

“I did not aim for kneecaps, kid,” Ares replied roughly.

“Then what… would be the target, Sir Black Knight?”

Ares paused. A pang of bitterness bit a corner of his heart and he burst into a series of melancholic faint chuckles. “That question just now somehow felt familiar. I’m not answering that. You’ve got a future.”

“Do people ask it often?”

“No,” there was a faint smile on the warrior’s face as he answered. “Go back inside, kid. It’s getting dark.”

“You are the second person who told me exactly that,” the boy murmured, setting his pitchfork against a back door of a building. “This world is confusing. Adults like you are.”

“Second person, you said?” Ares pondered a bit. “Then what building is this?”

* * *

 

She stepped into a pool.

Surge of warmth slowly greeted her the moment her toes came into contact with the water. The solitude felt blissful, to be alone in peace and feeling relaxed just like that. Exhaling, she savored the delightful sensation of warm water coating her body like a protective, healing layer. Her muscles rejoiced to the treatment, and she could feel her weary legs started to feel at ease as the clock ticked.

The bath was so tranquil. It was a hidden gem, located near a rather-hidden alley close to the market aisle’s entrance. Before Darna bloomed into a lively region, travelers mostly stopped by to unwind after journeying the unforgiving Yied Desert. Usually they would aim to camp around the green oasis outside Darna, but some residents, eager to flip their fortune, had a better idea. Thus the hotspring was born along with the bar and other accommodating facilities.

The secluded place also shielded insiders from the hustle of outside crowds. Lene exhaled again, making a voice which noted her approval of the warm bath she treated herself to while listening to muffled sounds of whatever-it-was outside bustle. With the night began creeping on the region and the unpleasant tiring evening she just went through, being as if she was in a completely different world with night sky as her roof—unperturbed by whatever happening outside—was a great way to end the day.

Lene glanced at the coin envelope she received from Bramsel’s castle, safely tucked between her clothes. Inhaling deeply, the dancer dove into the pound, holding her breath as if she was trying to wash all the dirt off her person while numbing her mind under the water.

The first one happened while the latter did not.

_I hope you do not mind, dear. It is not that I doubt you, but I need to make you presentable._

She recalled Bramsel’s boisterous chuckles when she arrived, his eyes analyzing every inch of her like appraising antique furniture on an auction. She recalled her polite yet defiant answer, telling Bramsel that she was presentable, and if he was sure of inviting her to the castle she would assume he did not doubt her capacity to dance. She told him she was willing to be tested, to be put on an audition with others just so they both could reach an agreement without doubting each other. Not only that, she was actually willing to take a lower pay because she was aware some entertainers already worked before she came, and Lene knew too well to assert her existence without having to vanquish another’s.

When Bramsel’s maids brought fabrics and jewelries into the guest room allocated for her, Lene began to doubt whether Bramsel did want to see a dance. Regardless, she was not really sure about having a man—old enough to be her uncle or even grandfather too, that was—choose the clothes for her. In a way she felt like she was being told what to wear, which often suited the man’s taste than what she personally hoped to convey as an artist.

When the maids left, she simply ignored what Bramsel brought her, untouched on the bed. Carefully unfolding them so that she did not leave a trace which spoke that the fabrics had been inspected, her guess turned out to be right—the top had a low-cut, which she would not doubt to show her cleavage generously when being worn. The bottom part looked like nothing but a thinly-tailored lingerie with decorative tassels.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” she held her breath, resisting the urge to throw the fabrics outside. It was not only the fabrics that were outrageously oblivious to be tailored mirroring Bramsel’s… _vision_ , but even the jewelries were too tacky for her taste.

It was not that Lene was hesitating when it came to dress accordingly—it was the thought of Bramsel laying his hands personally on the clothing articles themselves which made her shudder in disgust. The idea of Bramsel picturing her, then telling what he wanted to the whatever-shop he managed to order these from; the idea of Bramsel managing to scale her curves just with his bare eyes and went to get these for her.

Lene shopped clothing articles often to coordinate with her dances. But usually everything she put in her basket was wisely planned, as she would imagine how nice they would go with her costumes and how suitable they were with the dances she had planned for the week. Everything would bear a meaning, easily pair up with many things to save budget. Ankle bracelets to create rhythmic sounds as she moved, waist chain with pendants which would create a little galaxy swirl as she turned and twisted. Bracelets and necklaces which would reflect the candle and lantern lights shining over her, creating beautiful refractions of rainbow which only helped accentuating her costume.

Meanwhile, jewelries from Bramsel were expensive and heavy, and being a dancer she needed her clothing articles to empower her, not confining her movements that she could barely move around in them. And then again, they were from Bramsel, and she was too perceptive to let it slide, for she already pictured Bramsel would enjoy to see some jiggling breasts and asses.

… It really did not help knowing that it was Bramsel she was dealing with.

It was not that she specifically hated the so-called exotic dancers who did aim to present _that kind_ of dances either. It was as simple as wanting to be acknowledged as an artist, a professional entertainer, and most importantly a person as much as the others and not a mere product for consumption ….

Lene lifted her head off the water, inhaling some fresh air her lungs yearned for. That felt recharging. Bramsel should have realized she defied him by leaving everything the castle had allocated for her in the guest room, and she doubted the count would be interested in inviting her again.

Dragging her body out of the water, she generously applied perfumed herbs over her hair, savoring the strong floral scents as her hand began to reach for a wooden container to scoop some water. “Whatever,” the dancer thought, giving a pleasant massage on her scalp. “The bar is an open place. If Bramsel wants to see me dance, he can come there instead.”

Her mind went to the money envelope, which she took out of grudge and a compensation for her transportation. And to make her cancelling her performance—a _genuine_ dance performance, for nothing, unless Bramsel did want to have her insulted and appraised by the established entertainers in the castle. The dancer made a mischievous smirk. Had Bramsel handed the envelope in person, she would have been having fun to politely reject it at his face.

Lene rinsed her hair, hopping into the pool again. The warmth of the hotspring never disappointed her. Hmmm, perhaps she could spend Bramsel’s coins on a fulfilling dinner instead. It was probably unwise to spend so much in one take, but she was not exactly a fan of Bramsel’s either, and with the rigorous, meticulous saving she conducted since autumn, gods be damned if she did not deserve a treat.

Just then she noticed the tranquil nuance had changed.

… No, rather than getting livelier and noisier, it was more serene compared to prior. It was almost awfully quiet from the bath’s outdoor hotspring, and what previously felt blissful turned out to be rather unnerving. Tranquility was nice. But not when the universe suddenly went silent while you felt like you were separated from the world.

“I will wash it for you, Sir,” she could hear a small, high-pitch voice chiming in.

_Sir?_

“Ah, and the rest of your things…”

“I’ll take it with me inside. Thank you.”

And then she heard splashing water.

“… Hhh.”

Her mind raced. It was clearly a man’s voice, husky and rather deep. The man made one-two more sounds like prior, and she could not be sure if he was growling or actually enjoying the hot bath like her.

Still, it was not even important at all—she just realized she practically shared the same pool with a man, and judging from how quiet everything was, she was not sure if there were other customers besides them that night. Lene sighed softly. She was too annoyed by the doomed castle invitation that she hardly paid attention which pool she went in the first place. Granted, the hotspring was empty when she came, and people outside seemed to be too busy with their own respective businesses or that they might find it still too early for a hot bath, so she relished in the little freedom of having the entire pool for herself and could not care less where her feet led her.

… And yet, there was a man now. Good, just good. What would be the best then? Quietly de-exist herself like a phantom, hoping he would finish first? Stealthily stealing an exit like a lurking spy? She was there first, and she doubted he would finish sooner than she would. People went for a hot bath to relax, so usually they would take their time deliberately while inside.

Gods be damned indeed.

Lene moved as quiet as she could, encircling the pool. When she did not hear any more sound, she slowly turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who supposedly intruded her bathing. If anything, she could see if he was not the only new occupant of the pool, and she could gauge how far it was the distance between them so she could make an even quieter, hastier exit.

She did not see anyone.

Perhaps the man had been diving like she did, and was now savoring the delightful sensation of a relaxing hot bath in this particular cold, bustling night.

Lene retreated even further, because if he did dive down, he might have caught a glimpse of her legs and the last thing she would want to happen to end her already-annoying day was either humiliating herself for a simple carelessness or running into another unsavory individual.

She crossed the pool, clutching her clothes and the wooden container she used to scoop water. Halfway to the other side of the pool where she could hide herself behind the rocks, she could see a ripple slowly formed around the center of the pool.

 _Crap,_ she thought desperately. This new bather would be out to breathe in mere seconds…

And boy she was right. Splashing sound made a glorious entry of this water nymph slash devil or whatever category this man belonged in. Two-three meters behind, she could see the man slowly emerged from under, revealing someone whose skin was pale like the moonlight. He sported a lean but muscular wide rough-looking back and sturdy shoulders; strength would have been demurely spelt on his person if he was clothed. But right now, his back was bare, and a glimpse of soft scratches she caught only coyly attested to his supposed powerful image.

“… Ah,” the man muttered. Lifting his head off the water she saw him bobbing his head. Water splashed around as he flipped his hair. Strands of blond hair swirling about before he ruffled his mane, letting the disheveled locks to fall into their place, draped to his shoulders as water dripped out of them.

Lene did not see clearly because the hotspring caused some fog to form between them, but perhaps if she wanted to steal a chance, this was the best time to do it. The dancer clutched on her wooden container tightly—if she hit him from behind this fog, he would be out cold without knowing what hit him. And then she could bolt out of there, and acted like nothing happened.

She was thrown in between. Hitting another person just like that did not feel right either, but…

Her clutch tightened. _Sorry, Random Man. Nice figure, but—_ she thought again. One. Two. Th—

“… Are you spying on me or aiming to kill me?”

 _Huh?_ —the dancer blinked.

“Three seconds. Convince me you are not an enemy.”

She did not hear splashing water after that, but the water swirled a bit, creating ripples as what was previously calm got disturbed.

He was coming…

Lene held her breath, not sure to be marveled because Mr. Random with a Nice Figure could move stealthily like this, or feeling unnerved _as heck_ because he’d make a pro-level creeper danger if he could smoothly move around this way.

“One,” Deep Voice menacingly barked his threat.

“Two,” the wave on the water intensified.

“Oh, you wanna fight? Come then, you creep,” the dancer growled, clutching the wooden container with a death grip. Perfect. She was already irritated throughout the day, and the thought of maiming some random man’s groin did not feel like a bad finale to close the day.

“Th—“

She swung. Oh, at his crotch under the water indeed!

Her eyes widened when the water splashed greatly, creating a surge of wave as something shiny emerged from under.

That was…

“A… sword?!” Lene gasped. Who the bloody heck took a sword when—“T-that is too much, you know?! Who brought a sword to a fucking fistfight?!”

“If you aim to take my life, you better be prepared.”

“Taking your life?! Nooo, I did not!! Uhhh—I might ruin your chance to father a child but… sorry! I did not realize I got in the wrong bath—Sir, for the love of your beautiful torso, just let me go, please!”

“… Eh…“

Their eyes met.

The man frowned, his eyebrows being raised in confusion; his lips haplessly pursed into the shape of letter O, and moronic dumbfounded look would still be too mild to describe his expression.

_SPLASH!_

He threw himself backward at an instant, with his sword across his hips, barricading the gem between his legs, shielding her poor eyes as she quickly turned away to save herself.

_SPLOOOOSH._

She made a hasty retreat. Diving down with flaming cheeks, water splashed around her while she heard the man clearing his throat multiple times. It was quite a scene—him rapidly crossing the pound to maintain a distance with her, and her holding up everything she took into the bathing area with one hand, contained in the wooden vessel.

A minute and more passed by, and Lene had to acquiesce because she needed to breathe. Grumbling with a cough, she emerged from the water, only to find the man had moved away to be in the literal corner of the other side of the pool, his back facing her …

“… I am truly… sorry,” she could hear his deep voice murmuring from the other side. “I did not know a lady was taking a bath by the time I got in. My deepest apologies. I was careless.”

“… You are Ares,” she whispered back. Then she noticed he had been staying still without making any move, keeping his position as such with his back firmly faced her.

_Y-you are… that’s… the Black Knight?!_

He closed his eyes for a second.

“… Yes,” finally his answer came out, and he pictured her swallowing her breath, shrinking herself even more now that he caught her in this… unusual predicament. “And you have to be Lene.”

There was no answer.

“… Lene?”

“Hnnn.”

Eventually he could hear her hesitant response from where he was. Although he imagined how awkward she had to be at the moment, the typical humming sound she made proved that it was indeed the dancer he dearly knew all along.

“W-what brought you here?”

“… Returning. From a mission,” Ares closed his eyes again.

The image of previous battlefield flashed in his mind. Riding with castle troopers, they briefed him about a group of disgruntled mass who had occupied a warehouse near a castle town, determined to fortify themselves until Bramsel fruitfully improved their living condition by levying taxes they could no longer pay due to the harsh environment. Miners did not feel like sailing the earth as the weather got colder, and little support they received from the castle sparked a protest. With most of the forestry areas falling under the castle’s jurisdiction, desperately hungry people could not even hunt for food and they began retorting to the usage of force.

“Persistent people. The leader is to be taken back, dead or alive,” a soldier informed him.

He expected a standing, but by the time the Pale Rider that was the Black Knight and his demon sword Mystletainn swiped through the masses the way a tornado stomped against everything under it, he realized the group was nothing but a bunch of angry people who just wanted a better life.

Troopers praised him with all the glory a warrior could ever dream of while some others admitted his prowess with trembling legs. He stayed atop of his horse—untouched, undisturbed, without a single scratch if one would overlook tired biceps out of riding for the whole day.

Dead bodies scattered around him like withering flower petals which could no longer hold on to their sustainer; a pool of oozing blood carpeted his mount’s four legs as it rode along, delivering a message of death from the black sword that was Mystletainn.

_Slash._

Splattered blood.

_Slash!_

Breaking breaths.

_S l a s h —_

Parted limbs.

_SLASH_

Pitchforks, pickaxes, and other cultivating tools fell onto the ground because the hands which wielded them had no power to stand anymore. Mystletainn sated its thirst, and he hardly made an expression when some hot liquid splattered against his face.

_Red. Fresh, fresh liquid. R E D—_

“… I see,” she gave a small reply. Someone who could plow through all the challenges he encountered at the battlefield had to take his sword inside as he bathed, simultaneously dove and emerged in and out of the water to make sure no danger lurked behind as he cleaned himself.

Perhaps that was why he’d rather do most of his daily routines at the compound.

“Lene?” he called again.

“Y… yes?”

He softly inhaled, preparing to proceed with caution. “I did not see anything.”

“I-is that so.”

“Of course. I will only see what you allow me to see.”

“Alright then,” that was all she could muster. He seemed to be panicked, the moment their eyes met in the midst of the camouflaging hot bath fog. And yet there she was secretly admiring what she saw.  

“… Again, I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “Are you about to finish now, or…”

“J-just a bit longer!” she quickly caught up, her voice louder than she meant now that she was utterly embarrassed. “How about you? I did not even know you visit public baths…”

“I usually don’t,” Ares crossed the pool again, placing his sword on a stone which fenced the pool. “It’s just today I did not have time to clean up after—you know, and I guess it’s worse than I thought.”

“The enemies?”

Her question did not receive its immediate answer because pitchfork boy was back, carrying something folded in a wooden basket. “Sir Black Knight! It’s done now, nice and clean! My sister had it dried nicely over a grill for you… w-waaah, a lady?! M-Miss, I did not see you coming!! Gosh, a lady?! A _naked_ lady?!”

“You don’t have to voice it so loud like that!” Lene splashed some water against the kid. “The bath was empty when I came in! Didn’t know I walked into the wrong section!”

“A-ah, so it’s like that, h-huh. I… uh…”

“Stop staring.” Ares glared at the boy again, who instantly leaped out of the bathing area.

“He fled,” Lene commented flatly. “Something happened to your clothes?”

“Yeah,” Ares kept his position as to not face her. “The battlefield.”

_Oh..._

“Still, I’m glad because at a glance everything looked fi… ne,” she gasped, cupping her burning cheeks after realizing what she just said. “I—nooo, did not peep on you!! Gods, it’s just that when you emerged from the water your back to your waist f-faced me a-and—believe me, I wasn’t—“

“Yeah?”

“Y-you said that just to mess with me, didn’t you?!”

“Huh? But I did not even discuss torsos. Interesting subject, you are very smart.”

“Gods, Ares—“

“Yeah?”

“Hnnn. You deep-voiced, unfashionable height bandit—”

“Huh?—Ouch—“

“By the gods, you got hit! You could sense another person’s presence like that and you did not dodge?”

“If I turned around then I’d face you,” Ares rubbed the back of his head where the wooden container she threw landed. “When our eyes met, your face was bit-red that I thought…”

“Y-you thought… WHAT?”

“… You are about to faint for being in the hot water for too long?”

“That… is… all?”

“Hmmm? Let me think. Ah, yes, under the moonlight just then, your eyes sparkled and…”

“Moonlight? Ah, you stargazed? Actually, you are spot on because I liked it too. Night skies are beautiful, aren't they... hey, Ares—”

“Ah—ah, yeah?”

“You suddenly stopped talking! Don’t tell me… you are the one who can’t withstand this water!” she reflexively turned around, hastily approaching him. “I’ll get you out of there! Hang in there, Ares—“

“… Lene.”

“It’s alright! Your skin is pale. Is the heat overwhelming? Don’t worry, this time I’ll be the one rescuing you, Princess Ares! I’ll just help you climb out of this pool, and—oh, yes—by the way, don’t forget to rinse with cold water! After some time it will be fine to get in again so your skin will get a balanced treatment. Gotta keep the natural moisturizer that way, you know? Oh, I’m rambling. Okay, here goes!”

“Lene, hold on.”

“Why, are you embarrassed? It’s just your skin acting up, it’s alright—“

“… Lene, I’m naked.”

“… You are what?”

“Naked nude no-string-attached naked?”

“I see! … Hold on. Eh—ah, y-yes, of course, of course!! Oh… gods,” she gasped, shyly retreating as she caught him shaking his head at the other side. By then she could hear a rustling sound, and chastising herself while curiously taking a peek, from the corner of her eyes she could see him reaching for a towel he draped against a stone just next to where Mystletainn was. “I uh…”

No response.

“I—I’m done. I’ll get out of the water now, so stay where you are, okay? Don’t turn around!”

“On my honor.”

Lene nearly bumped into the stony edge of the pool when she heard him. Begrudgingly she yanked her towel, drying herself and wrapping her body in it as she dragged herself up to fetch for her clothes. “Oh good, the money envelope is not wet,” she muttered, lacing up her corset, fixing her petticoat before swiftly putting on her dress.

“Dancing early?” a reply came from the other side.

She turned around, feeling much better and less vulnerable now that she was dressed. Ares was fixing his pants, his back still turned against hers. She was coyly paying attention to his back again when the warrior grabbed a linen undershirt out of the pile the hotspring boy left for him, spreading the cape to check if it was still damp. And somehow she felt she had been unfairly cheeky because the warrior merely set the still-damp cape over his left shoulder like a sash, leaving the rather thin undergarment as he placed his damp overcoat in the wooden basket where his clothes were.

“No. It’s just Bramsel,” she muttered. “Invited me, but seemed to be toying with me. I’m hardly in the mood for some silly chit-chat with other castle snobs. At least he compensated the booking fee.”

“Bramsel?” Ares mumbled.

“Hehe, if you are jealous, what if I teach you to dance and dress you up like me so I can smuggle you into the castle, Ares?” she smirked. She could picture Ares shooting cold deathly stare at her, but imagining Bramsel’s face when the carriage brought him in instead of her was priceless.

No response.

She sighed. “I get it! Annoyed, aren’t you? Just say so, I won’t bite!”

Just then she caught a faint, muffled sound from his direction.

“Ares—now hold on, oh gosh, are you crying?” she hurriedly approached him again, and…

“On the contrary.”

Now that he was standing straight he practically towered over her. Approaching from behind as she caught up with him, she weaseled around to check on him. “Really?”

“Yeah?”

His response was conveyed in the typical indifferent manner if not leaning on the rough side instead. The flat-almost-curt “Yeah?” he would typically spare to others was still there, but…

“… You are chuckling.”

“I am.”

“Y-your eyes are kind of bright. So you are not annoyed?”

“No. Besides, Bramsel already did me before you ever could.”

“He did that to everyone,” she muttered under her breath. “Today is overwhelming and I’m hungry.”

Ares gave a finishing touch on his waistband and firmly fixed Mystletainn after. Both of them startled when they heard a sound of a horse neighing. “You’ve got a friend there.”

“Is he hungry?” she chuckled back.

“He’s a spoiled brat.”

“Hmm, I wonder why this alley was so quiet like this… usually there would be vegetable sellers trying to secure last purchases and usually they would have some carrots ready on the counter…”

“I might be guilty for that,” Ares replied.

_… Oh._

“If that’s the case…” she clasped her chin, eyeing him. “Say, Ares! Did you see any star at the bath?”

“… Stars?”

“Yes! Changing season means changing constellation, isn’t it?” she twirled around. “It was so peacefully tranquil. Being alone outdoor under night sky like that feels as if this entire universe belongs to us only.”

“Is that so?”

“I think I caught some really bright ones above,” she grinned. “And then you showed up. See, this is why your horse must take my carrots while you dine with me. Revenge-apology carrots. And it would be a waste to call you a princess and not messing up with you further.”

“Oh. Oops then,” he chuckled. “But now that you mentioned it…”

“So you saw stars too!”

“Only one. But it was so uniquely radiant.”

“Wow, I must have missed a good one because even you look refreshed!” Lene followed his footsteps as he moved outside to get his horse. “There is a star such as that one? I wonder…”

He turned around, facing her, the rein in his grasp. “Apparently so.”

“And you still did not tell me!”

He smiled again, bending to match her eyes as he offered her a ride home; ignoring all her curious mumbles about the peculiar celestial object she supposedly missed, all the carrots she swore to give to his horse for not telling her when he spotted it. Shaking his head for the last time of the day, he had to admit his night stroll had turned to be overwhelmingly peaceful, secretly thanking Hezul for being able to witness the star that close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo that concludes 1/5 of this theme challenge. I hope you all have a pleasant winter so far! Happy hibernating~


	21. Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He does not know he can feel. And relate. And feel. Altogether at the same time.
> 
> After all, nice is not his middle name.

“Hey, Black Knight, which swordsman do you think is the strongest?”

 

He stopped drinking for a second, blinking. The cider was merely seconds away from being savored, and it was now resting idly in his hand. “I don’t know,” he shrugged then. “Interesting question, though.”

“Asking which lion is the strongest to a lion? You’ve got guts, Uncle Barkeep!” the question quickly met a response from the other end of the counter. One of the waiters smirked upon hearing the word the barkeep had blurted. There were only three of them at the counter at the moment—the barkeep who was always on standby behind the counter, the waiter who was cleaning and sorting empty glasses, and… him.

The Black Knight Ares leaned against the wall before taking one of the seats before the counter. The rest of that night’s bar-goers were crowding the dining area, fixated on one star which shone brightly as much as she moved brilliantly. And Ares had no problem having his usual seat and table taken on behalf of a group diner who had come to watch her dances.

He glanced at the stage again.

The dance performance was nearing its end—by then he could tell. Usually the performance would end in a spectacular finale, marked with the increasing tempo of the music which serenaded the dance. It felt like a climax of a budding conflict—as the tempo increased, the beats became merrier and merrier. When it happened, she would follow the pattern because then her movements would be faster and more energetic. Like a crescendo flying out of a violist’s string, she would make a heavy step against the stage’s wooden floor, her feet slamming against it thus creating a rhythmic sound through the clinking ankle bracelets. Her steps would be livelier and grew more vivacious—reflected in the stomping moves, as they proceeded to motion faster and hit the floor harder.

“You’re saying I would have included myself in the list?” Ares returned his attention to his chatting party. The corner of his mouth twitched, marking that he was genuinely amused by the topic.

The barkeep nodded earnestly.

“… Really now?”

“But that is common, though?” the barkeep looked at him again, surprised that he frowned. “Warriors usually love getting recognized for their valor and prowess. Don’t you feel like you’ve accomplished something when it happens?”

Ares shrugged. Again. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“Well, those stories said you were undefeatable,” the waiter chimed in. “And come on. You know you haven’t had your match of an equal standing so far. I mean, some challenged, but…”

“Ah. I simply don’t plan to die so early,” with the same indifferent manner, Ares sipped his drink now.

“Then who is the strongest swordsman, in your opinion?” the barkeep started again. “I imagine if such person exists, then sure it will be interesting to hear!”

“Right, right! Usually warriors recognize one another! Someone in mind, pretty please?” the waiter grinned, setting a plate of freshly-baked potatoes on the counter now.

“You guys are so determined, aren’t you?” Ares’ brows knitted as his hand dug into the plate.  “Alright. It will be Eldigan the Lionheart of House Nordion in Agustria.”

“Eldigan of Nordion?” the barkeep squinted. “Ha! Never thought you’re a fan of old players.”

“Who?” the waiter chirped.

“Young people these days,” the barkeep shook his head in a comical manner. “If he knows him, why don’t you? Lad, Nordion’s Eldigan is one of the strongest knights this continent ever had…”

“Was,” Ares cut in.

“Yeah,” the barkeep nodded solemnly. “Too bad. Too bright to go. Too young to die. But to those who knew him, they said his knightly devotion was peerless.”

“A very noble soul,” Ares nodded in unison. “But perhaps devotion only dooms you in the end.”

“You and Uncle Barkeep are brooding matches,” the waiter snickered. “Alright, Sir Eldigan for the past-decadence contender then. But what about now? Sure there is any.”

“Interesting. I don’t really care so I hardly pay attention,” Ares took another sip. “Besides, I couldn’t care less from whose womb it is the opponent I’m fighting against came from. You want a fight, then a fight you get. Simple,” clicking his tongue so abruptly like he just forgot something, he hastily added, “and one whose bloodline matters, I already know even before we get the chance to clash our blades.”

“You hunt,” the waiter mumbled.

“I do,” the Black Knight returned the line with a smirk. “I’m not losing what I marked.”

“Hmmm. Is there such a warrior?” the barkeep joined in again. “One with significant bloodline and strong enough that he comes into your attention? So that’s your strongest?”

“No,” there is an unmasked ferocious glint in the Black Knight’s eyes as he emptied his glass. “I have no plan to make him _my_ strongest. And he only gets to live until I come for him eventually.”

“W-wew…” the barkeep wiped his forehead, now sweaty out of fear.

“You said you did not care,” the waiter courageously braved the wind, nudging Ares right in the shoulder. “Alright, this one sounds like a prey. Skip. I mean like, you know, the strongest warrior that is just there. The kind of warrior you’ll just nod at each other when you meet him, at a respectful distance.”

“You read too many troubadour poems,” the Black Knight snickered. At the same time he chastised himself in silence for sounding so _angry_ when conveying his honest answer. He did not plan this. Well, he did not plan them to ask such question, and yet. “… Actually, yes. There is.”

“Oh?” both the barkeep and the waiter looked at him with great interest now. Was there truly such a person? A warrior so notable for his prowess that it earned the Black Knight’s silent respect that he would rather trade bows if they met—rather than blows? How come? So not only that this warrior was supposed to be strong and deadly, but for some reason did not actually trigger the conquest radar other warriors usually had when noticing each other. The quest for power, the claiming of titles. The curiosity of the blades, because the hot desert did not need a second sun to shine above it.

“Yeah,” Ares set his glass away from his elbow now that it was almost empty. “And that is…”

“Hellooo~!”

The three men jolted upon hearing the cheerful greeting gracing them. They stopped their little warrior-ing council and greeted the person who just lingered in.

“Ahhh it’s you! That was terrific, even from here,” the waiter laughed.

“Everything went well tonight, eh, Lene? As expected from Darna’s prima donna,” the barkeep nodded at her. Yes, it was Lene, the dancer. She was still panting softly when she arrived, her body clad in her favorite pink dancing costume. Her skin glistened under the refractions of lantern light, revealing sweat drops as a proof of her hard work for the night.

“Awh, shush, Uncle,” Lene merely chuckled, swaying her leather sandals-covered legs around to read the menu inscribed on a medium-sized wooden board near the counter. “I hope you still have some lemon tea there! And this may sound crazy to ask considering the season, but… ice?”

“Ha! Alright, alright! Knowing you, I shouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore,” the barkeep let out a series of hearty laughter, turning his back from her to make the drink. “We are just having fun with our Black Knight here, but his lips are sealed shut.”

“I answered though. I chose Eldigan of Nordion,” Ares finally spoke again after his momentary silence.

“Ares is a Crusader Hezul’s fan, you know?” Lene giggled. “No wonder he likes Eldigan too then.”

“Really?” now the other two glanced at him.

“Yeah! A warrior recognizes another, doesn’t he?” Lene answers, her hands are busy taking off some jewelry she wore for the dance. She dumped a pile of bracelets and gold-colored chain armbands over a handkerchief and folded it. The accessories were now safely tucked behind her corset.

“Hezul,” the barkeep clasped his chin, sliding the dancer’s order across the counter. “Why Hezul?”

“Why not?” Ares smiled a little. “Didn’t she just repeat what you two said?”

“Well, yeah. I mean… there is no reason not to, I guess,” it was the waiter who responded. “Besides, Hezul was strong. So… checklists fulfilled?”

“If the shoe fits,” Ares responded again, taking the glass he set aside when Lene reached out for what she ordered across the counter. The barkeep and the waiter exchanged glances with each other. It was already hard to entangle Ares into a casual, mundane chit-chat. They did not expect it would be harder to even fish an honest answer from him like that. Perhaps the subject was too intimate to him. Or perhaps he did know someone of such importance and he preferred not to remember them again.

… Perhaps something indeed happened and they parted tragically.

But the dancer who just joined them did not catch the chit-chat, nor was she aware that bar workers basically tried to get Ares into talking about a warrior he thought to be the deadliest or most decorated in their time. Lene chuckled, raising her glass to respond to the gesture Ares had displayed. “A refill?”

“No. I’ll just finish this one,” the Black Knight raised his glass, downing the little cider that was left in it as his head deferred to her a bit in what appeared like a slight courteous bow.

The waiter now exchanged glances with the barkeep.

* * *

 

He rode in silence.

His surroundings appeared tranquil—something he expected from a serene village like this. His eyes darted around, scanning the thick, lush bushes and trees he encountered around the trail.

He heard something rustling from behind.

The Black Knight made a soft surprised sound, unsheathing his powerful demon sword Mystletainn in mere seconds. He held up his left arm to cover his face when he thought he saw something rushing from the front. Neighing, his also startled mount started making noises as it jolted. The horse stood on its two front feet, and Ares had quickly shift into pulling the rein tighter if he wanted to salvage himself.

Ares found himself losing balance.

The horse twisted itself, throwing him off its back. Thankfully he still managed to roll himself when thrown down, minimizing the potential damage he might receive for the unkind landing he just had. With a death grip on the hilt, Ares picked himself up. If there was something he dreaded for, it would be being disarmed in the middle of a combat or a dire situation he could not yet assess. The sun was blinding him, and the sudden movement only made it worse.

Ares kept his feet steady on the ground, patting his mount gently to calm it down. Now that he was left alone without the presence of another human being, he took the time to carefully check on his surroundings.

Ares swung his sword downwards. He expected he would hear something breaking—thinly-weaved yarns or ropes meant to tackle his horse, which was a common tactic used by highwaymen and bandits aiming to rob travelers. He expected to see suspicious footprints—of a person, people which might indicate that someone had set up all the traps he thought of and then waited for it to work from behind the bushes.

Ares kicked the sand under him, hammering his heels roughly to stomp on the ground.

Nothing.

He did not see any suspicious traces or rope cuts.

Unconvinced, he tried again, this time slamming his sword sheath into layered sands hoping to find something… more wicked—cruel, cruel and gruesome iron traps hunters might set for the prey they had in mind. It was not that he was so keen to hope finding something utterly dangerous there, but to say that his past enemies never tried anything like that would be untrue. His past enemies had tried shooting fire and poison arrows at him, lured him in into a closed room where five people cornered him while he was being kept busy with the poisoned tea he had unknowingly downed. They tried to throw a javelin at him, slashing through his tent or attempting to assassinate him in his sleep.

And he overcame it all.

Sometimes it would be catching his enemies by surprise in reverse because they did not know he took his sword sleeping when he had a blanket over his cot. Another time it would be his birthmark on his upper shoulder feeling unusually itchy that it deterred him from sleeping. Or in another chance, he drilled Mystletainn deep into another person’s abdomen, creating a pool of blood as the other’s stealthy blade tip was merely inches away from the back of his neck.

None. Still none.

Ares took another step.

Another step followed by another downward thrust.

Step.

Thrust.

Step.

Thrust.

Step…

“Is something the matter, Sir Knight?”

Ares jolted. He turned around in haste; his sword formed a horizontal line which functioned both as his immediate defense line and a convenient position to strike. He expected his opponent would be waiting on him, smugly revealing to him all the plans they had set to make him miserable.

Instead of everything he had imagined so far, there was a woman peeking at him, expressions of both concern and curiosity blended on her face. The woman carried a basket of plants—either vegetables or herbs he could not fathom, her hair was rolled in an updo then covered with a white linen, exuding the image of a typical common folk he easily encountered around Darna.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” he nodded courteously. “Something startled my horse.”

“And you think someone attacked you?” the woman merely smiled in a serene manner as if she gauged he would be surprised like that. She saw how the warrior became tongue-tied—not any single word came out even after he opened his mouth to say something. “I’m not the culprit you are looking for,” she spoke again, even calmer this time.

“But of course,” Ares could only nod courteously, sheathing his naked blade back. He felt the woman appraising him, and now that her eyes were on him, he took his turn as well. She was a mature woman—not that he expected yet another young woman to be sympathetic of him, but if his first insolent eye stare could speak, they would attest that this was a mature woman, older than him perhaps by a decade or more. There was something alluring in her collectedness—something which reached out to him to lower his guard and be honest to her. It was not to say that he was attracted to her—the lady was not bad, admittedly; after all she was not old, and although hard labor might make her look tired and slumping, the lady’s modest clothing did not conceal the charisma she possessed, or the graceful bearing of which she carried herself.

The woman appeared to be pleased that he had responded to her politely that way. The last time she found a riding warrior, he did not address her kindly. He wanted to shove her out of the way so that he could either barricade himself in or flee to safety.

“It was just a bird, Sir Knight,” the woman gestured to the bushes, parting it while giving a gentle shake. Like a fulfilled prophecy, a startled flock of birds took their flight into the sky.

“... Ah,” Ares muttered.

“I know you are not from here,” the woman spoke again. “This village has no standing army.”

“Madam, I’m not with the castle.” Ares finally found his lexicons back; the tip of his tongue grazed his teeth like he just tasted words for the first time.

“Oh! A traveler, then?”

“… A mercenary,” he replied. Somehow there was this guilty sense nudging him deep down inside his heart. He expected the woman to give him the _look_ before staying away from him, but all he witnessed was her heaving, the concerned look was back in her complexion.

But only for mere seconds. The serene calmness returned, which did not escape him either. The lady might have heard or seen more things than what her modest peasant garb conveyed. He still weighed in whether he should feel even more alert because of that. Being friends with Lene showed him that not everyone who would not flee after knowing who he was—at least what he did for a living—were dangerous people who only wanted to cast a harm. At the same time the woman was a total stranger to him, and he had come to the village on a mission, not to make friends.

… Right, a mission.

The next day after the warrior conversation they had, the barkeep had informed him someone placed a request for the strongest to slay the strongest. And to take care of the matter, nobody felt fitting the bill more than Darna’s own current darling of the underworld—the Black Knight.

“Have you heard of the Crimson Shade?” the client whispered to him that day. They had met at the bar when the night was deep, close for the day to change in the next hour. Two glasses of mulled wine facing them respectively, and the client, a flashy man probably in his forties, began to lick his dry lips in a manner akin to one who prepared to spill all scandalous details.

When Ares said he did not really pay attention to what was happening in the martial arts world, be it newcomers or established folks with a renown alias like himself, the client shifted his body language. Slumped shoulders, bowed head, arched back as he got closer whispering the story.

“Notorious thief,” the client started then. “Had his way even into the most guarded mansions. He would wipe their savings clean like someone who licks plate when eating. And he’d read their sins like an edict.”

“Had?” Ares frowned.

“People said he was dead.”

Ares snorted. Sipping his wine for the first time, he did not bother to conceal his cynical dark smile. “Rich people are always afraid, I take,” he muttered casually. “You fear the phantom poor person you create because supposedly they are coming to rip your wealth off your hands. Then when such person dies, the ghost stays with you.”

“I come here to hire you, not for a moral lecture,” the client commented sourly. “And please, I know you underworld dwellers are sympathetic with each other, but if you are idolizing this thief, I’ve got bad news for you, Black Knight—he set ablaze a manor after depriving it of treasuries, cooking the hostess and her unborn child alive. Her little brother could only watch and whimper though. Not many kids had the strength to go against adults, especially when one particularly roped him at a nearby tree.”

“Oh, we are not. Trust me, nobody hates fellow underworld denizen more than ourselves,” Ares chuckled, off-tune and bitter, and he had to take another wine sip to neutralize that. “But people remember which hand fed them when the world turned its back against them in times of dire.”

“Even if the kid survives and still sees fire sometimes?” the client narrowed his eyes at him.

“I know that kind of kid,” Ares muttered, looking at his own palms as he answered. “So tell me more. After all, if you want me to hunt down a prey, I need to recognize the smell.”

* * *

 

He tailed the woman, following her from a distance.

… Somehow.

She offered him to come home with her, to have his horseshoe repaired. The animal had ruined it when it twisted as he attempted to evade the birds.

… Birds he suspected as an opponent.

His mount had walked with a limp, and the moment he considered to trace his prey on foot, the woman offered him a resting place while her blacksmith husband repaired the shoe.

Strangely, he did not feel like objecting much. Perhaps he simply thought of being discreet concerning the mission he received. After all if he was to hunt for a supposed ghost and needed to be coveted checking whethere the notorious thief was still alive, he would need to scan through the village where he was last seen.  

… Allegedly.

His client had said that the thief retired to a remote village and built his little kingdom there. Ares thought he could subtly confirm his location by riding around, and the woman’s comment regarding the nonexistent standing army only told him that he had arrived where he was supposed to be.

“Are you truly a mercenary?” the woman said, tilting her head at him. He had followed her around, taking the vegetable basket from her voluntarily as she led the way. “You look pretty young to be…”

“I get that often,” Ares cut in. He just wanted the mission done so he could return. Somehow this one made him feel uneasy. Somehow he did not feel like he could trust himself to keep on. It wasn’t the skill that he concerned about… something else. He did not choose missions. Everything got served as long as it was paid. But this time, there was a subtle urge at the corner of his heart which made him… think.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the chit-chat he had at the bar before he embarked on the mission. His companion dancer lingered around after the client left, and as always, he told her he would need to ride again. Just like that—the same taciturn demeanor, the same cold deep voice.

But at that time the dancer fiddled with her pink scarf, not even heeding him when he gestured her to sit now that the chair before him was vacant after the client left. When he repeated what he asked for in words, she hovered beside him, still not taking the seat he had pulled.

“Are you… attracted to strength too?”

She never asked him that before, neither did he to think of such.

“Isn’t every warrior?” he replied, voice calm as his mind tried to decrypt her question.

She swallowed. He did not understand why she appeared troubled to query him more. After all knowing her all these months if there was a quality he would give a standing ovation to, it was her honesty. She was fearless. She was bullshit-spewer’s worst nightmare. And she usually knew just the right button to push, the right string to pull—for him to speak. One of her qualities among many which he sincerely admired; after all if it was not for her formidability, he would not even _talk._

And it felt good. He did not know talking could actually feel good. Perhaps that explained why it no longer did when she stopped talking.

“… Suppose I’m hungry and stealing from you…”

He rose. Now that he resumed a standing position, he towered over her. His hands flew, perching themselves over her shoulders. “Some swords cut deep and the wounds heal slow.”

“Not yours and not yours,” she butted her gaze with his. “You are stupid.”

He chuckled. “Mine does and mine do.”

“Ares!” she clenched her fists at her side. “So now a rich family is going to use you to hunt for a ghost? Or someone who has stopped existing? Or a predator that will prey on you instead?”

“My job is interesting, isn’t it?” he shrugged. Perhaps he was lucky because she was so patient like that.

“I heard from the guests the moment they spoke of this name,” the dancer replied, her voice trembling this time. “A warrior. A prime, undefeatable one in his time. And he always gave back what he stole to the poor. He built orphanages. He gave money to churches which sheltered people. Starving children who—who shouldn’t be, under these rich folks’ watchful eyes. They said he did not harm the elderly. Or women. Children. I mean—Ares, there is a chance that you are—meeting someone of your standing.”

“Nice change, isn’t it? Perhaps that way I won’t feel like a mass murderer for once.”

“Ah…”

“I’m not easy to kill,” he shrugged again, “and I have no plan to die yet.”

“There has been no such thievery lately, don’t you think?” the dancer shouted when he began to leave. “And most likely you are going against an entire population he’s been shielding so far, you know?”

“Then we are back to the routine—me as a mass murderer. Nothing changes. Comforting, huh?”

“Is that—what you want? Defiling your name voluntarily by going against… the most vulnerable, the ones he fed?” her voice broke in her throat. He was so stubborn, too stubborn at times that it boiled her blood when they had to be against each other’s horn like this. She got it. He was a mercenary. Paid to go to war, paid to do another person’s bidding by putting his body in their place. Paid to cause blood to rain. But she had expected better. He had confessed he hated scheming individuals because supposedly it was what tore his family apart—betrayal from a best friend, the king who refused to back down; right when his noble father stayed true to chivalry and knighthood.

“As if ‘Black Knight’ and ‘dancer’ even match, Lene.” His voice tore hers again—a soft stabbing, not boisterous or heavy with a tone akin to tearing the skies. He regretted his harsh reply, but he had to.

At least the mercenary side of him, the Black Knight side of him urged him to. It was scary, debating her. And no, it was not the defeat that he pictured—about that, he knew it would be imminent each time his words had to joust with hers. And perhaps what scared him was not this probability of defeat each time his wits dueled hers—the way she would make him _think_ no matter what the outcome was. Even when she accepted his explanation and withdrew her points off the discussion table, deep down he knew she’d be winning regardless because while the words left, the thoughts lingered.

And he said it again and again—he acted; he did not think. After all head surgery sounded dreadful. And sometimes deafening the words which started to pierce through, thanks to her tearing layer every layer of every secure bandage he had wrapped over his being was convenient.

She was silent. And he cussed himself for the imminent defeat. Not that he minded when it was her. But because he’d rather have her ripping him to shreds than giving him the distressing silence like this. Oh he knew she was not playing crime and punishment—but for some reason he’d been trying to fathom recently, he’d rather have her talk. Talk, talk, and talk—even if solely to castrate his dignity.

“You know this is a job,” he tried again, voice softer this one. “And I’ve got no intention to die yet.”

“But still, someone whose name alone causes a terror a like that…” she fidgeted with her scarf. Again.

“I’m not easy to kill,” he chuckled a little, hoping to cast the sudden brooding atmosphere. “And well, speaking of names that master bandit has got a contender. Mine.”

“No. Stop saying stupid things if you can’t stop acting stupid,” she hissed. “Black Knight and dancer what—I’m Lene and you are Ares. See? That’s my name. That’s your name.”

And then it was him who went silent.

“And one more thing,” the dancer motioned to him to come closer. “This is important…”

He predicted she would just mercilessly yank his hair again, yet he played along. After all he just went cynical and fatalistic more than usual, and only by the grace of saintly crusaders and actual saintly crusaders that she had not murdered him. _Yet,_ he thought again, somewhat amused. “And that will be?”

He saw her moving, and he yielded to the possibility of having his mullet brutalized. And yet there was none, only that his cravat was gone—reigning in her hand, just like how her smug smile crowned her face. “Will be this one.”

“… You want a cravat?”

“Silly, silly Ares,” she hummed. “Take it back from me when you return!” And with it, she gleefully tied the cravat over the ribbon which held her ponytail in place. “And from the front, at my face! Don’t pull it off my hair from behind just because you are tall, you height bandit. If you slag I can just infiltrate your compound and steal more things, you know? Aha, how about this! I’ll replace your black shirts with everything that is not black. Everything that is soft or gaudy, like blinding lights!”

“No.”

“Then return so you can take it back!”

_… Oh._

His lips cracked into a faint, gentle smile then.

* * *

 

He watched closely as the lady’s husband prepared all the tools he needed for the horseshoe. Brown hair swirled back and forth as his head bobbed, almost rhythmic somehow. From the other corner of the house, the lady was boiling the vegetables he helped carrying, and the fragrant smell coming out of the hotpot somehow reminded him of his companion dancer’s soup.

“Hey lad, you’re spacing out.”

“Ah—sorry. The hotpot…”

“Tempting, isn’t it?” the blacksmith laughed heartily, hammering his tools over an anvil to forge a new horseshoe. “I’ve never seen you around! Traveling? This isn’t particularly a popular sightseeing spot.”

“I’m a mercenary,” like prior, he repeated.

“Really? Haha, who has a problem with a little tranquil village like this?”

Ares watched the blacksmith forging the horseshoe. One swing over another, brought against the anvil to bend the metal in progress—

_BAM._

“Not me,” he replied simply. The sturdy hammer was reset into a readying stance before being brought down again.

_BAM._

“Then what are you looking for? If you are a personal buyer this time, this place is a modest one.”

“Your wife is so kind to bring me here after my horse made a fool of himself,” he replied courteously, his eyes started to pay close attention to the sky above them. The sun was dulling. This beautiful afternoon would end soon.

“Oh, she is indeed a wonderful woman,” the blacksmith spared a loving gaze at the unaware lady who was still concentrating on her hotpot. “Well, I don’t see new faces often either! After all sometimes the best way to meet new people is through accidental event. In your case, my sympathy, though.”

“It is alright,” the corner of his mouth twitched a little for the intentional pun. “Not many people come?”

The blacksmith changed hands. The hammer was now resting firmly in his right grip, and he swung again as he wiped a sweat with the other hand.

_BAM._

“I suppose. We are mostly independent here. Shunned by the lords since forever ago so we built our lives with anything we could try affording. Planting things. And my shop here. It’s nice to be modest I guess, because if they hear us prospering, perhaps they’ll start _not-so-beautifully_ taxing.”

“Shunned?”

“Long story,” the blacksmith chirped again. “And you, what are you looking for?”

“A person,” Ares muttered dismissively.

“Oh?”

_BAM._

The blacksmith picked a pincher. Freshly-hot forged metal—now a horseshoe—was safely tucked in between its fangs. Fire sparked like a budding flower when the new creation was being plunged into a water container.

“Yeah. A terrorizing thief or so I’ve been told. And this was supposed to be his birth place.”

“Oh, that one. Wasn’t he dead?”

“Heard so. But those who knew him seem to remember such a warrior he was,” Ares spoke again. “Ah, watch out—“another spark flew as the blacksmith dipped his creation again. Too close to his face, and Ares had been idly sitting—not too close from his working station to reach him on time.

The blacksmith narrowed his eyes, throwing himself backward as his neck strained to make a pulling motion. He reflexively put his left hand to block the spark, his right one still clutching the pincher was being twirled that he brought forth of it again after forming a circular swirl.

“My, my. So much effort for a dead guy,” the blacksmith chuckled.

_SWOOSH._

Ares watched as he dipped the horseshoe into the water again.

“We’ll let it cool for a while and I’ll put it on him,” the blacksmith spoke again.

“I can do it. It’s alright, Sir,” the Black Knight shook his head. “I thank you.”

“You can? Ha! Should have thought so seeing how shiny this horse’s mane was. You spoiled him,” the blacksmith grinned. “Is there anything else I can do for you, or do you crave for my wife’s hotpot there? But even if you do, you have to be patient because the kids will come to eat with us.”

“… Kids?”

“Oh, yeah. Neighboring orphans around. We share food with them sometimes,” the blacksmith glanced at his wife again. This time the woman overheard their conversation, and she lifted her head off the hotpot she was working on, sparing a tender smile at him. “Their fathers were mercenaries like you. I just wanted to break a cycle. After all…”

“Dear, it’s going to be ready in no time,” his wife called, cutting in. “Are you going to eat with us? Come on, sit down. Don’t be ashamed! It’s typical to have those kids around for dinner, so I’m making plenty. We haven’t had kids on our own yet, so the merriness is nice.”

“I…” Ares wanted to speak, but somehow he could not.

“I’ll get you some tea, you just wait,” the blacksmith left his work station, and Ares could only watch as he climbed up some rocky staircases which served as a path leading to the small house behind. The Black Knight watched the blacksmith stepping in, right foot, left foot, each swayed as each of his shoulder did, knees slightly bent.

When he came back in seconds with a tray and three wooden glasses with a teapot, Ares hastily approached him. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, no need, no need. I’m good. You think I’m _that_ old?” the blacksmith laughed cheerfully again, and as prior Ares could only watch as he poured some tea.

“Thank you,” Ares muttered awkwardly.

“Ha! Now that we’ve got something nice to drink, we can continue chatting! It’s been a while since we have a guest, perhaps my wife told you already—we like this place so we don’t always go out.”

“I see,” was the simple answer conveyed by the blacksmith’s conversation partner then.

“So! Will that be all? My, if you didn’t say I’d have guessed you’d be one of those shiny noblemen. Sometimes they travel in discreet because their entourage slows them down, you know, or because they don’t want to be recognized. Nobles. Who knows? Ah, I digress.”

“Actually there is,” Ares rose, setting his money near the work station, holding the banknotes onto the ground with the help of a couple of small stones. He did not know if his voice was just as equally heavy as the sudden suffocating tight sensation he felt in his chest. He knew he was healthy. He did not feel that before he had this conversation with the little blacksmith family who seemed to open their doors for… people. Closing his eyes to deafen the dissenting voices again, he recalled what his client said.

_I can pay you three thousand. I’ve waited for a long time and I don’t care._

That was a huge sum just to track a dead guy. One person, one _supposed_ fearsome warrior who might have past his prime, and even if he was still in his prime, Ares was confident enough of Mystletainn. The blade never disappointed him so far, and it had prolonged his lifespan during… _interesting_ times.

_… Ares, you are stupid…_

He tried to suppress a growl.

“There is?” the blacksmith looked at him, and Ares wished he had the chance to punch himself in the chest before he continued speaking.

“… I come for you,” his voice was heavy, raspy, like oxygen was drained from around him with every word he muttered. “Sir Crimson Shade. My job this time demands your head.”

“Funny lad aren’t you? I’m a blacksmith! Besides, what is your proof?”

“That you are a blacksmith,” Ares gestured to the tools. “The way your waist did not move when you hammered the metal. When the spark flew at you and you twirled the pincher—must be your reflexes kicking in. The way you strolled inside when fetching the tea, that was…”

“… Charging stances because I’m ambidextrous,” the blacksmith smiled sadly, raising into a standing position as well. “And who are you, my executioner of the day?”

“Ares. The Black Knight of Darna.”

“… I’ve heard of you,” the blacksmith sighed. “The current highest-paying sellsword.”

“To be honest, I don’t care,” Ares shrugged, “neither am I paying attention to that. But here I am, so please pick up your sword, or be on your knees so I can make it quick and painless.”

“Please?” the blacksmith chuckled bitterly. “Do you always say that to people you are about to kill?”

“You are a warrior,” Ares spoke. “I’ll let you die as one.”

“I was. Not anymore,” the blacksmith totally shifted his demeanor. Gone were traces of chatty goofiness like prior, and he now solemnly faced the Black Knight with a resolve. “And I never wanted to go back living that path again. Let me die a human.”

This was supposed to be easy, Ares thought again, astonished that his own thoughts tormented him. Why was he dwindling? It would be even easier now that the former feared warrior did not seem to have a qualm accepting his fate like this. Yet exactly why Ares felt so troubled like this—Crimson Shade’s calmness, if not readiness he displayed made Mystletainn felt so heavy out of a sudden. Like there was this corroded part around the hilt which made it locked and nearly impossible for him to unsheathe…

“Why did you fake your own death then?”

“I did not. I was indeed in the brink of it,” the former warrior glanced at him. “And now that you are here, I guess one of those pesky noblemen sent you my way.”

Ares nodded. “Maybe for the pregnant lady you set on fire as you burned their manor.”

“… Gods,” the former warrior sighed, but it came off so sad, so mournful like he just made a mewling sound. “It still hunts my every sleep. It was pure mistake. Pure, pure mistake. I got the kid out—“

“In ropes,” the Black Knight cut in.

“—before he tried to attack my comrades, whom in turn might want to skewer him alive,” the former warrior sighed again. “I distracted them. If we just burned it down after getting the loot, they’d go. I had one to check if there was anyone, anyone inside, because I knew the owner would be gone on a trip…”

“… Ah. That too. You know how to read situation. You know how the rich behave.”

“Well, who doesn’t? Either money dog or a slave to blood lust, we are alike,” the former warrior writhed.

“I’m not objecting that,” Ares wondered if it was just his imagination, but he did feel like he had to push in order to get Mystletainn out of its scabbard.

“… That person. My comrade. He said nobody was in. I did not know. Had I known—“

“Too late.”

“Just like us, treading this path, little Black Knight,” he snickered. “Oh, sorry. _Sir_ Black Knight.”

“Sir, by all means. Just pick up your sword—“

“No,” the former warrior shook his hand again, resolved this time. “I know this day would come, but I wish it would have been… longer than I predicted. I can’t leave a legacy, but perhaps it’s better for my wife. I should have spared her from… all of these.”

_Are you… attracted to strength too?_

Lene’s words hammered him and Ares clutched on his cape, suddenly feeling like the air around him combusting. _Isn’t every warrior?_ —He had asked her back then. “I’ll let her go. Your wife has nothing to do with this. She will walk freely and safely. I give you my words.”

“If you allow me a few last words with her?” the blacksmith tried to keep his voice firm.

“Definitely.”

Ares could see that despite all the steadfast façade the blacksmith had put up, he still looked pretty shaken. Nobody was ever ready, he thought—and perhaps neither was himself. Hunted for something he did in the past made Ares think whether some people related to the folks who fell to his blade ever marked him like this, and their punishment for him would not come now while he was in his prime—strong, young, and able-bodied, but later when he retired and had settled somewhere.

Suddenly he had… thoughts. If he could even retire and settle, for he never imagined a future where he did not make it back to Agustria. He just wanted to finish what his late father had always dreamed of; freeing Agustria from civil strives, instilling the realization among its titled heads that they were all the proud bearers of the great Hezul’s legacy, and in his name they should be working together to bring Agustria into its golden age long overdue rather than spilling each other’s blood.

And he suddenly wondered if he could be old enough to see them into fruition.

“… Dear?” the blacksmith walked up to his wife, who looked like she had been waiting for him and their unlikely guest for the hotpot. “There is something I need to take care of first. You may want to check on the kids. Buy more meat or whatever else from the market too while you are at it.”

The woman’s confident bearing fell as her smile subsided. She too, appeared shaken, like she had been anticipating for this day to come. “… It’s enough to feed everyone else, including your guest,” her weak reply came. “That is very rude of you to kick your wife out of the house for a guest.”

“… I…” the blacksmith could not find a word.

“You are coming for Crimson Shade, aren’t you?” the woman got up, facing the Black Knight without hesitation. “Then I have to tell you, the man you are looking for is dead. This is my husband, a goofy blacksmith who likes food too much and likes sharing them with neighboring orphaned kids.”

“Ma’am,” Ares gestured to her, his voice so apologetically gentle like he could… break sobbing.

_Are you… attracted to strength too?_

Again, his companion dancer’s words hammered his head.

_Does strength make you happy, Da-da **?**_

**_O_** _nly because that means I get to pick you or your mother nicely, Ares. And protect our country._

_Then why no happy, Da-da **?**_

**_B_** _ad, Ares._

_Bad **?**_

**_A_** _real knight does not fancy brutality. He goes to war keeping his heart pure, free of malice, free of worldly ambition, for his eyes only see honor—_

_I don’t understand. You speak big words. Me confused **.**_

**_S_** _omeday you will._

_How **?**_

**_W_** _ith greater strength, comes greater responsibility._

_But you’ll teach me how to punch people too?_

**_T_** _hat I will!_

_With the sword too **?**_

**_C_** _ertainly so. This sword is always meant to be yours._

_I don’t get it, Da-da **.**_

**_O_** _f what, my cub?_

_Why **?**_

**_B_** _ecause the more you realize you can, you should not._

_Confused. Sleepy. Zzz **.**_

**_I_** _t’s okay. You have all the time in the world._

_Are Uncles Seesee and Wanwan strong too **?**_

**_A_** _res—it’s Uncle Sigurd and Uncle Quan, and yes._

_Are they nice **?**_

**_Y_** _es. They are my best friends!_

_So to be strong means to be nice **?**_

“Then do it, right here. Let me see,” the woman gestured back to Mystletainn. “You’ve come from afar to search for a ghost that no longer exists. Why falter when you have the chance to make one yourself?”

“Ma’am.”

“Sir Black Knight,” her voice conveyed a tremor. “Crimson Shade is dead long ago. He passed out by the river around here, one deep wound against his abdomen creating a pool of blood. There were other five arrow shots around his body. Had they wanted to kill him, they should succeed.”

“You mean…”

“I said what I said!” the woman growled. “They toyed with him like a paraded wounded bull. No, I did not nurse him. We all did. It took an entire village to do so, the way it took one Crimson Shade to make us human again. Secluded and ignored by the lords—this is Darna, Sir Black Knight, who do you think planted these trees and bushes until—until… someone like you was fooled by a bird? People like it when you are strong. But when you are and you decide you do not want them to like you anymore—now that’s when hell begins. There is only a blacksmith here. Crimson Shade died years ago. If you still want to keep going, the _least_ you can do is allowing me to bury my husband. If you are going to take his corpse and have him paraded, make it two. One being mine, and I’ll give you for free.”

_I’m Lene and you are Ares. See? That’s my name. That’s your name._

_… Lene._

He exhaled. He counted to eight before releasing it slowly, slowly, slowly, like his very soul tried to adapt to the surroundings suddenly feeling foreign for him. “Fight me then,” he concluded. “I’ll let you die as you wish for—a blacksmith, and a human.” With it, he cast Mystletainn aside. The demon sword was neatly leaned against the wall like a curious silent witness who watched everything with a great interest.

The blacksmith was stunned. “I can’t fight as well as I was prior. They broke me, and then I _dissolved_ me. I’m a blacksmith. A blacksmith is not supposed to wield a lethal weapon or punch people easily.”

Ares picked up the forging tools the blacksmith had prepared at the work station. He threw the pincher at him, which he caught—before taking a metal bar himself. It was just a rod, probably not good for anything other than arranging coals in a stove or hearth. “Then fight me as a blacksmith.”

The pair was stunned where they were.

“But…” the woman spoke, yet her husband cut her in.

“… You are very honorable… very well. I understand.”

_Someday you will understand, Ares._

_—No, Father. I’m no warrior. I never am._

Ares gripped the rod like he did a sword as the blacksmith fixed his on the pincher. When the sun tilted, creating series of orange and gold refractions above the sky, he charged forward, pushing the blacksmith to bring back his inner warrior to return the courtesy.

_Forgive me, Father._

He succeeded making Lene swinging her sword as it should be for the first time. He succeeded making her try to land a few serious punches against him for the first time. He, the infamous mercenary with a notorious alias—succeeded bringing the demon out of people who never thought they had it.

… And Lene. The sweet _aware_ dancer he shared his survival tips with. Hers was prevention, or what he’d call sensibility, rationality—while his… well, in his scenarios, one would live while the other died. In hers, it was about retreating to safety. To barricade herself, to be undetected until the danger passed.

_Hey, Black Knight, which swordsman do you think is the strongest?_

Ares swiftly stepped aside. The pincher bore its fangs, clasping against the rod he was holding. Even if he won the tug-o-war of strength his ex-warrior opponent forced him into, there still would be a chance for the metal rod to break, and he would be disarmed. Not defending himself when the pincher attempted to pull the rod out of his hand, its handles moved swiftly against his torso, landing blows here and there as it rotated around like a destructive meteorite.

 _He still has it,_ the Black Knight contemplated, gritting his teeth to withstand the jolting sensation each time the pincher’s handles made a trace against his body. He noticed the reflexes and power he received from the other end. Once a lion would always be a lion. And once you killed—

Ares twisted his wrists when he gauged he was in a convenient distance by the time the pincher pulled his weapon—and arms—in. The end of the rod now slammed against the pincher’s handles, and he forced it further so that it became diagonally squeezed between the handles.

“Pull or push?” the Black Knight’s eyes narrowed dangerously…

“I—“

“One.”

“No…”

“Two.”

“Three. It ends here,” Ares growled ferociously, putting more and more strength as he counted. The rod which he forcefully shoved diagonally between the handles kept them in their places, leaving the pincher in an awkward position for being unable to be closed or made to snap. A defanged cobra. And…

The blacksmith was appalled when the pincher’s head broke, forcefully bending the metal rod Ares had forced within. The tool fell haplessly into the ground, and his wife contained all her emotions in her throat as she squeaked.

Meanwhile Ares walked to retrieve Mystletainn he made idle…

“Something… clean, if you please,” the blacksmith muttered. “Please have mercy on my wife. Don’t let her see my blood spilling that much.”

“I know.” Short reply, concise and straight to the point as the demon sword expose itself naked under the waning afternoon sun rays. “… How long since you’ve been disabled?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sword arm. The torn ligament—did they do it, or did you?”

The blacksmith remained silent.

“… You wanted to live so much, didn’t you,” Ares went on, closing in the distance between them.

“… For her, yes. She deserves the world—a loving man as her husband and not a warrior with a piling kill counts,” the blacksmith glanced at his wife, who tried so hard to maintain a dignified expression even though he was looking at Pale Rider straight to the eyes now. “… I said the entire village nursed me. True. But if not for her—if she did not call me by my name for the first time—if she did not remind me that I had a birth name, worthy of being called at ease like that, worthy of an innocent civilian’s lips…”

Ares paused.

“… So for the first time, I wanted to live. When they got me, I made it my goal to return no matter the cost. And to think I’d only need to sacrifice my sword arm after what I did—after the lives I took—and after the love I undeservingly found…”

The woman began to sob now.

“… It’s alright,” the blacksmith whispered, drying her tears. “It’s a price I’d need to pay. I have no regrets. Having known you. Having loved you. Better me than you.”

_Better me than you._

“Alain,” the woman whispered back. “Alain. … Oh, Alain…”

Ares sighed.

“Step aside, Ma’am.”

“I told you! You’d have to—“

“Step aside, please. I’ve concluded an agreement with your husband. Go. Now.”

“… If you are going to be honorable, you can’t do it halfway,” she gathered her resolve to challenge him back. Her hands were clasped with those of her kneeling husband’s. “I want to see until it ends.”

“Very well if you so wish,” Ares unsheathed Mystletainn.

* * *

 

He made a quick swinging motion with his sword. Blood stain sprinkled against the ground, leaving traces of ugly crimson. But Mystletainn was back to its clean state, and he exhaled once again before finally returning the sword into the scabbard.

The woman was sobbing faintly, and he nodded at her. “There is no need for a stitch, but do not move so that the wound dries on its own.”

“… Thank you,” she whispered, clutching on his hem. “Thank you. Thank you, truly, thank you…”

Ares nodded. He tucked a couple of brown hair strands which he wrapped with a handkerchief. “Crimson Shade is dead,” he muttered firmly, purposefully staining his handkerchief with the remnant of blood oozing out of the wound he carved on the ex-warrior’s face.

When his victory was final, to the surprise of the couple the Black Knight had asked if the ex-warrior still preferred the modest life of a blacksmith—a nobody, instead of claiming his glory as one of the strongest even after death. The blacksmith nodded, clutching on his anticipating wife who remained to stay until the end.

So he acted. Taking the ex-warrior’s own words about sacrificing something in exchange for a greater gain, he offered a bargain. Thus ended the tale of the notorious swordsman and thief; his hair strands reigned in the tight grasp of the Black Knight as a war trophy, and Mystletainn carved another wound across his face to help hiding what people might have noticed of the former Crimson Shade.

“This is farewell,” Ares nodded again to the couple. “Thank you for the tea… Sir Alain.”

“And for the chance as well, Sir Ares.”

He returned the courteous awkward nod the wounded blacksmith conveyed, replacing the horseshoe before speeding off. A couple of kids could be seen crowding the narrow path leading to the blacksmith’s house, and they chirped at him as he passed by.

“Sir Warrior, Sir Warrior! Where are you going?”

“… Some bar to eat,” the Black Knight responded. Subtle smile hid under, covered with blond locks.

“Mrs. Blacksmith makes kick-ass hotpots!” one of the kids chimed in. “If you are a tourist, you should eat with us. I know you won’t be disappointed! And they are reaaally nice people!”

_So to be strong means to be nice **?**_

Ares merely let them gushed about the couple. He still relayed to the kids to be mindful because supposedly the Blacksmith had been a bit unwell that he would need to rest. Tracing the simple path once again to return to the city, only then he noticed how beautiful the tranquil village was.

The couple was right about it not being a tourist spot. But he could feel the hard work of the people who lived there to build their community—the trees they could farm and garden from despite the limited possibility what a place with topography like Darna could allow. The birds flying home to their nest…

“Hey, hey, young man!! Look forward if you are riding!”

Ares jolted. A small old woman smiled at him, a wooden basket in her hands. “Ah…”

“See? Oh, boy. By gods, you look so young. Why are you carrying a sword? My, my, these days make it dangerous that even someone like you had to be armed when strolling around!”

“Someone… like me?”

“Yeah! A tourist, aren’t you? Or… oh wait. You probably are one of those sheltered nobles! Ah, dear gods! Don’t you have a carriage with a rider on your own? You look so young and innocent, if you let yourself distracted, you may fall off there, you know?”

Ares paused. And he felt tickled at an instant.

“Hmmm! I tell you what, young lad. Do you want some persimmons? They are ripe during early fall to late winter, you know? Ha, you probably don’t know. I know Darna does not have many varieties when it comes to vegetable options, but we like it here! The soil is better to grow crops. Come on, take it!”

“Uh—I…”

“My, my, so modest aren’t you? Be careful though, I fear for the worst. Nice people like you are often times naïve. Please don’t get me wrong, it’s just I fear the bandits will target you this way. Your sword itself looks unique too!”

“Oh,” finally, an amused smile broke on his face. “I’m just passing by. I just got my horseshoe repaired at the blacksmith. And this sword? Ah, it’s an heirloom. I carry it because it once belonged to my father. I don’t think anyone else would be interested in this one, because they won’t be able to harness it.”

“Huh? Ah, it must be old then! You should make it clear so you stay out of danger. And see? You must be spacing out that your horse needed the care. Come on, come on, take some! Thank the gods our harvest was pretty fruitful this season. Fruitful fruits, you get it? Haha! I used to pack these for my husband. Now I’m just a widowed old witch, but old habit dies hard.”

“Packing these… for your husband?”

“Yeah! You know flowers don’t always grow around this village? So he’d go to the town, purchase some for me. And I’d make sure he’d have these each time he went out during the season, because how else was I going to tell him I cared and I thanked for all the efforts he spent on me?”

“Is that so?”

“Sure, sure! You better get going. You look so… well-groomed, gods forbid you run into a bunch of bad men who want some extra money by ransoming well-off parents.”

“Oh, I’ll be okay. Thank you kindly,” he chuckled, opening his traveling satchel then.

* * *

 

Lene finished her score. Thunderous applause accompanied her as always even from the backstage. She wiped her face once again, cleaning traces of sweat across her body as she began to take off all her dancing attires one by one. The jewelry started first, and she barely finished putting on her day dress when soft knocking could be heard from the outside.

“Uh—can you wait, please? I’m changing!”

The dancer glanced around, slapping her forehead. Perhaps it was just the musicians who shared the backstage with her. She could just open the door for them to come in then!

Lene shrugged, feeling rather amused—and subsequently trollish at the same time. She giggled, feeling like a spoiled princess for doing that—locking a bunch of other people outside to feel like she owned the entire room for herself, deliberately taking her time to dress up? “Good that I’m not a princess. People would so love to lock me in a tower for abusing my power!” she blurted out, letting her hair down while she was at it.

And then she paused. His cravat—she had subconsciously wore it over the ribbon which arranged her ponytail. She wondered—she could have it tucked somewhere else, why did she wear it like she did yesterday? He did not even say anything in regards to his possible return date—after all, the person he looked for probably was not even alive, and to get to know _that_ first he’d at least have to search around while chit-chatting many people.

Lene giggled again, imagining Ares’ sourness having to entangle himself in the coveted chit-chat and small talks he dreaded making. What would he say, anyway? Most of the time even with an average Darnaian it would start with “The weather is nice, eh?” and ended with a simple cold “Yes.”

Still, she worried. All these rumors about his new target, the blood lust and fire of grudge in the client’s eyes. And there was a reason why the current-strongest was hired to take down the former-strongest.

“Coming,” she finally said, concluding the last pat she made over her ponytail. Silky green strands, gathered like a glistening river flow reflecting tree lines which fenced it, smoothly swayed back and forth as she ran to get to the door. “Sorry, you guys! You knocked when I began changing, so…”

“It’s alright. I’d dread walking into you—again.”

“… Eh…”

Lene blinked. Instead of the musicians, it was Ares’ towering figure standing at the threshold.

“Ooooh gods. You are back!” she beamed at him. She wouldn’t lie the recent mission made her worried sick. If the strongest blades were to clash then the world around them might as well turn into ashes…

“I am,” the Black Knight responded.

“Why are you… I don’t know how to put it—like that?”

“Like what?”

“… Soft?” the dancer blurted out again. “Um… I don’t mean like meek or anything, but there’s just something… tender? Tempered? Gentle? Heheee. Perhaps you’re not Ares. You’re Eldie, shapeshifting.”

“No, meow.”

“M-meow?” she beamed at him again. “Aaaahhhh! Ares, you are soooo cuuuuute!”

“Eh—“ he gasped, her hands mercilessly landed on his cheeks, rubbing them like he was a stuffed animal he could see during carnivals. “Case closed then. You called my name.”

“… Cheater!” she pouted. “That was merciless. Merciless!”

“To score a big victory, sometimes a little sacrifice is inevitable,” he closed his eyes for a second when he said that. “And now that I’m here, my cravat. You promised.”

“… And so did you…”

_Ah._

“Now it’s you who sound soft,” he pointed out in a tender manner.

“Oh~? Really, meow~?”

“H-hey, Lene—“

“Why are you flustered out of a sudden?”

“I—don’t really know.”

“You love cats so much!! You are soooo cute, meow!”

“No—gods. Whatever then,” Ares sighed, letting her all the victory laughter she wanted. “And I’ve got something outside to ransom my cravat with.”

“But I already got the prize! I mean, you came to me! And…” she cupped her cheeks, feeling so shy at an instant for what she blurted out of reflex.

“Is that so?”

“Don’t say it so softly like that!”

“Okay then, meow.”

“I—will pretend I did not hear that.”

“As you wish, Miss. Meow.”

“Ares—never mind, never mind!! Uh, so… the warrior?”

“Warrior?” he frowned for a second. But in no time the soft gaze was back, and he shrugged—this time in a casual relaxing manner instead of his typical indifferent one, if not curt. “Oh. He was dead.”

“So indeed there is no Crimson Shade anymore.”

“Indeed. It’s in the past,” he nodded gently. “I only asked around.”

“Really? So that’s why you returned so fast? Wow, I can’t believe you endured the chit-chats…”

“That, and to ransom my cravat, of course.”

“Oh…”

“And to thank you too, meow.”

“Who… even meow’d with a straight face…”

“Me?”

“Yeah, but—never mind,” she sighed. “I just finished! So yeah, let’s ransom your cravat, meow!” grabbing his arm, she enthusiastically tangled it with hers.

He appeared flustered for some reason, but seeing how cheerful she was, he thought it was a fair bargain to make. The crowd by then had begun to disperse, leaving the waiters—now all-crew intact—at the counter again with the barkeep.

Ares loaded the persimmons he received into the welcoming, open hands of Lene’s, who cradled them like they were the most precious gifts in the world. He could see sparkles in her eyes as she hummed, whispering the name of the fruits and a thing or two about how long since the last time she had the chance to taste them. When she chuckled, raising her arms to undo his cravat off her ponytail, it was his turn to chuckle back. “Actually, keep it. I don’t care anymore.”

“And I still get to keep the persimmons?”

“Yes.”

“Unfair, meow!”

“Fair, meow.”

“Unfair—aaaah!” Lene squeaked, realizing she just meow’d again.

“What happened to them?” the barkeep glanced at the waiter. “And the lad is all smiles like a cat.”

“I have no idea, Boss. I mean—the Black Knight just got back from a mission, meow.”

“… Et tu, Aldo?”

“ _Who_ said _you_ can meow?”

“Ares, y-you don’t need to glare at him…”

“… Are you going to chop my head if I meow?”

“Yes.”

“Waaah, Boss!”

“Told you, Aldo! Why are you so ridiculous, meow—“

“Oh you too, Uncle?!”

“Gods,” Lene giggled again and again, feeling utterly relieved seeing their adorably cute Black Knight—she hoped he did not hear that—return safely to be with them again. More importantly, there was no prey to hunt. There was no potential predator to mark him as the prey instead. Everything felt so well, so well that she thought she could just start laughing uncontrollably after worrying him this much…

He glanced at her.

_… If she did not call me by my name for the first time—_

“Lene?”

“Ah—yes?” the dancer stopped laughing.

 “Nothing serious. But Lene?”

_—If she did not remind me that I had a birth name—_

“Yeees~? Something the matter, Ares, meow?” she chuckled.

“She meowed and you did not glare?” the barkeep chirped sourly.

_… Worthy of being called at ease like that—_

“… Ah, no, it’s just… Lene, the persimmons—”

“Oooh, Ares, I’m sure it will be fine!! I don’t even know how you got them, but see, I’m optimistic! Besides, even if they are unripe the thought is what matters, you know?”

_… Worthy of an innocent civilian’s lips…_

… Lips?

“Ares? Ares—gods, what’s the matter?” she gently patted his back when he spilled some of the ale he was having. “Are you alright? Hnnn! You should sip your drink slowly and not while you’re about to talk, you know…” reflexively reaching for the napkin to help him, she stopped.

She thought she could see bruise marks peeking from under his shirt, granted by the grace of his cravat-less neck.

“Nothing,” he muttered his reply. “Nothing for now. I suppose I missed, but—what did—what did you call me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year~!! I hope 2019 bring nothing but all the good things coming your way!
> 
> Sorry for the late update, I was working on something too -winkwink-
> 
> I had planned to post it (yes) before New Year, but it seems my plan is going to end up as a plan because I got distracted. Tried new things. Not sure if it'll work out so you be the judge when the time calls for it (what is this cryptic message again lololol).
> 
> Anyway, yes~ have some warrior-ing. Hopefully warrior enough to be badass, and still warrior enough to be enjoyed.
> 
> [ Disclaimer: I do not advocate using warrior as an adjective ]


	22. Defeated

She thought it was a rather unusual night.

 

A wild one barely surprised her anymore because it was pretty much the atmosphere she grew in and made most of her nights. However, what piqued her curiosity was exactly that—it was barely five in the afternoon, she had not started her dancing, but the bar-workers were crowding a table in such gleeful manner.

“The first one losing has to drink and buy a drink,” she heard one of the waiters, Helios, declaring as the latter put a jug on the table. Now that was oddly interesting—Helios was not as jocular as his colleague Aldo, or ‘clownish’, if they were to borrow the term Darna’s infamous Black Knight used on many occasions.

Helios was not alone. He had a companion—another young man clad in black sitting with him. And this other man appeared to be zealous, being baited like that. “Oh?” under the bright lantern, she could see him smirking back. “Be careful. I mark people the moment they did me.”

“Nooo way. You are probably good at fighting, but at this one, I’m not losing!”

“Very well, bring it on!” the one who smirked back _grinned_ now, lightly slamming his fist on the table. She softly shook her head, noticing the way he curved his lips. It looked primal if not untamed, and as childish as it sounded, apparently he had his own thirst of a good challenge as well.

Helios stared at him; a courtesy which he was too generous to return. He looked at the bar waiter back, his lips pursing tighter than a stouthearted spy’s in an interrogation session. There were some minutes before the bar waiter, Helios, started making funny faces.

He glared.

The waiter did not have a weak heart, though. He tried again, arching closer. “Has anyone ever told you that the barkeep wears a wig?”

He flinched.

But in mere seconds he quickly got a hold of himself, and Helios took the seat again, looking rather disappointed. “Your turn.”

“Your clown friend Aldo wears his apron upside-down at least three times a week.”

“For real?!”

“Ha!”

“Nooope. Not yet, Black Knight.”

“Damn,” Helios’ opponent—the Black Knight—sighed. He quietly assumed a firm sitting position, his arms folding impatiently. “How long until this _shit_ ends?”

“Come on, man. We barely started.”

The Black Knight cussed again.

There were another solid two minutes passing by with both men passively folding their arms, glaring at each other. She would not be surprised if both had turned into a statue because neither blurted anything—that was until the Black Knight volunteered to break the silence.

“They said a decapitated head would still be alive for about thirty seconds.”

“No way,” Helios, the waiter, groaned.

“Need a place to throw up?” the Black Knight flashed that dangerous smirk again.

“I’m a warrior on my own,” Helios buckled up, pressing his palm against his mouth as he inhaled deeply. “I’m not losing yet. But that one—fucking hell, the fuck did you see out there at the battlefield?”

“Want to know?” the Black Knight pressed on.

“No, thank you.”

“But we barely started,” the infamous warrior kept pressing. “And the sun has not even set. I’ve got time,” he shifted his sitting position, purposefully making a dominating gesture as he slowly took control of the course of this… errr, competition. Tired after returning from a mission, he dropped by thinking he could get a drink, but the not-so-busy bar provided a good chance for the workers to have some leisurely time on their own—and with it, having their leeway with him.

Ares, the Black Knight, had thought it would be just like that for the day—getting some drinks, probably chatting up the barkeep for requests or guests seeking for his service while he was away, and he would return to the mercenary headquarter handing the payment to Javarro before he got the chance to feed his cat. But alas, the bar workers were in such a merry mood that they drafted him in.

First it was the barmaid Maeve who engaged him in card game, to which he had lost miserably. Silently thanking his ancestors that Maeve did not demand anything other than a help to bail some water out of the well, Adela, the cook, took him into a pantomime guess-game where he managed to score only two out of the ten mimicries she presented.

But this one, this one with Helios was something he never, never expected. He had to face off the waiter like this, at least until sun down without being permitted to make any reaction. All he had to do was maintaining a straight face until the sun gave up—while provoking his opponent to drop his guard.

Should be easy, he thought, because Helios was no Aldo. The Helios he knew did not make any tickling punchlines too tempting to ignore for anyone with sense of humor. Alas, he thought he knew Helios. Perhaps that one was a sadist.

“Before you start,” the waiter quickly took a chance. Alright, perhaps joking with the Black Knight was dangerous. But that one was still the Black Knight, and only Naga knew what gruesome sights he had encountered out there at the battlefields he partook. He would not take a risk. At least the Black Knight was innocent… ish. Or so he hoped. “Imagine if potatoes reflect the faces of the people who would eat them.”

The Black Knight paused. And _stared._ And punched himself in the face because he was close to snorting. “Fatal strike, but not yet,” the warrior responded. “Now my turn. Need a bucket just in case?”

“Go to hell.”

“I take it as a no then? A moment of silence for your clothes,” the Black Knight smiled. Too menacing to be called a smile, as it was more of a predator’s grin knowing well his prey was cornered. “Have you ever heard of the breaking wheel?”

“Anyone knows accidents and road rage happened, Sir Black Knight!”

“No, Helios. The torture device.”

The waiter groaned again, and the Black Knight smirked.

“So, they first fastened the person to the—“

He did not have the chance to start, because his wary eyes caught a shadow coming their way.

She lingered closer to where both were seated, carrying some refreshments in her hands. “Hellooo~!” as always, her cheery voice colored any room she was in, and as always, it would be like as if the room came into life when her presence was assured. “Friendly chit-chat?”

“Kind of,” Helios slyly smiled at the warrior then. “Why don’t you share your stories to her as well? Don’t make our dancer here feel excluded.”

“No,” the warrior returned the smile with a death stare. “Do so, and carry your own corpse home.”

“Wew,” the waiter sighed.

“Something… important?” the dancer peeked into the warrior then, her curiosity bloomed.

“No,” the Black Knight replied. “Something disgusting.”

“… If it was him, I wouldn’t be surprised,” she responded after huffing. “… But you too?”

The Black Knight paused. Shades of red quickly emerged on his face the moment he realized the implication of his attempt to shield the dancer from the gory stories he had in mind. “Not _that_ kind.”

Helios would so love to cackle if he wasn’t at war with the warrior.

“No?” the dancer asked again.

“No. What are they?” the Black Knight asked, darting a quick glance on the plate she carried.

“Awww. That easy?” Helios chirped in. He thought the dancer’s arrival would be the ace card he needed to get a rise out of the warrior—or at least made his face changed color so drastically that he would snatch his victory before sunset.

“I trust Ares!” the dancer chuckled without thinking. “And they are white chocolate cubes.”

“… The barkeep has them?” the warrior followed up his question before Helios saw him blushing.

She nodded, looking so happy that he was almost, almost smiling when she popped one into her mouth. “This is heavenly! And then we can have cake!”

“Cake?” out of curiosity, the waiter looked at her. “Are you going to be the one making it, or Adela?”

“I’ve never baked that before, but I can try, sure,” the dancer responded, greedily taking another cube. “Oops,” giggling, she put the plate before the two. “This one is too tempting…”

“Too sweet. Pass.”

“She wasn’t even offering you,” Helios chuckled.

“I’m not affected,” the Black Knight stated simply, glaring again.

“Hmmm. What if we bake something Ares can eat,” the dancer casually dragged a chair to join them. “Something that is just right. Not too sweet, not too bitter and still delicious. And we can glaze it with beautiful natural food coloring… maybe with some vanilla and strawberries if we can procure them? Then we’ll make it so, so fluffy with cream cheese in between. Let’s make it cotton candy-soft… or perhaps something even softer than that to the point of giving cotton candy existential crisis.”

“You said something I can eat,” the Black Knight Ares quickly retorted. He would not lose. Never.

“Hnnn~? But just because the color is cute doesn’t mean the taste doesn’t compare, you know?”

“It’s alright, Lene. If he doesn’t want it, you are more than welcome to feed me your cakes,” the waiter made a sly smirk.

“Focus. You challenged me, so I am your opponent, not her.”

Helios whistled.

“What are you two doing?” the dancer chuckled. “My, one has to be either foolish enough or strong enough to challenge Ares! So…”

“Staring contest!” the waiter responded with a smug smile. “So we’ll look at each other’s eyes for at least half an hour and take turn to catch the other off guard…”

“You mean taking turn to annoy each other,” Ares replied sullenly. “Well, yes. The first one to make any reaction loses.”

“Congratulations, Helios. Take your time, this one is king of taciturnity,” Lene really laughed this time. Really—challenging Ares into a staring contest, hoping to make him make faces or even laugh? Helios got a death wish.

“Don’t be so sure. History shows the oppressed prevailed taking down the strong!” Helios smiled again. “Hey, Sir Black Knight, there’s a hole in your pants.”

“Exactly. Otherwise, where will my legs go?” the Black Knight replied, looking so incredibly bored. “Tell me what you want. The least I can do is granting your last wish.”

“Damn,” the waiter sighed, taking one of the chocolate blocks on the plate Lene set for them. “This chocolate is amazing, though.”

“Right?” Lene giggled, pushing the plate to Ares’ direction. “Why don’t you try as well?”

“I’m not…” Ares made a move which appeared like he was trying to wiggle away from her offer, literally. But she did seat herself with them this time, and seeing how his seating companion seemed to enjoy the delicacies, he conceded. Curiosity won, and he dragged his chair back to get closer to the dancer. “Not dangerous, aren’t they?”

That innocent comment earned instant pleasant laughter from the dancer—again. “Oh, Ares. Those are just chocolates! Well, admittedly white chocolate tends to be sweeter than your regular chocolate, but this one is not a war criminal. Come ooon~ try it!”

“Don’t tell me… the mighty Black Knight has never had chocolate before?!” Helios chimed in.

“I probably had them as a child.”

“Wow. You ought to be well-off then,” the waiter contemplated.

“… I was comfortable,” Ares replied diplomatically after giving some thought. _Perhaps too comfortable,_ he quietly added, keeping it to himself. Too comfortable that everything was truly gone the moment everything was gone. From a little prince who had everything to a street urchin who had to survive on throwaway foods and then worked by drinking blood as an adult.

“Really? I’m so glad!” the dancer clasped her hand together, looking even more enthusiastic to push the plate onto his direction.

“… Glad because I had a decent childhood for a short-lived time?”

If only he could just tone down that bitterness even if only a bit—if not for… the select few. Perhaps the bitterness never truly left him even after all these years, despite the occasional longing he felt at night when he was alone and the universe was so quiet and dark with only the moonlight shining in the sky…

“Brooding again,” she merely ticked his nose, with the unchanging smile despite his harsh reply. “What I mean is exactly, Ares! Since it’s been a long time since you enjoyed such a thing, now is the perfect time to relish it again, right~?”

“… Oh,” he muttered. It was as if light was back to touch him, because traces of somberness quickly dissipated as brows were raised and lips curved.

“If you don’t want them, then double joy for me,” Helios smirked, stretching his hand to the plate.

“No,” Ares quickly maneuvered his hand around to lightly slap Helios’ stretched hand over the table.

“You said you’re not a sweets-eater,” Helios remarked sullenly.

“No,” the look on the Black Knight’s face softened when he replied, “but a few of those won’t kill me.”

She stole a glance upon hearing what the warrior just said. A sincere smile blossomed on her face, facing the warrior who still frowned glaring at his male counterpart who seated himself before him. “Then have it your way, Ares! There are enough of these for all of us,” she responded. “… I hope!”

The Black Knight tilted his head when he caught her small ripples of laughter. “Rabbits love chocolate, huh?” he muttered, feeling tickled all of a sudden when she sheepishly followed up her response.

“There!” Helios suddenly slammed his knuckles against each other, grinning at the warrior with an unconcealed proud look on his face. “You smiled. Ha, you lost! Buy me a drink.”

Ares paused, seemingly taken aback by what just happened. He stole another glance at the dancer, who by then was popping yet another chocolate block into her mouth. She turned around, sensing his eyes on her and treated him to yet another sheepish smile as her hand awkwardly wiped her lips.

So she did love her sweets, huh…

“Fuck,” Ares muttered, to the delighted, delighted expression of Helios. He shook his head lightly, taking a glance at the dancer again who now looked a bit worried upon hearing him swear. But the Black Knight already pushed his chair, walking to the counter with a wry grin to yield to his opponent.

“Thank you,” Helios smirked at the dancer.

She wished she could understand what it was Helios was thanking her for, but the waiter had disappeared into the kitchen, preparing for an anticipated dining crowd since the sun was about to set. Darting another glance at Ares, the warrior averted his eyes from hers as he reached for the loser jug Helios had prepared for their afternoon duel.

The dancer pondered. Was she the cause of his demise in this… staring contest or whatever it was they had before she came? The dancer put her hands on her hips. Well, she wasn’t called Lene for nothing.

“Hey, Helios, can I get a drink too?”

“Right. What will it be for today?” the waiter smiled, probably too wide that afternoon. Wiping a glass with a rag, he added, “I need to thank the prima donna for my victory.”

“Ginger ale,” the dancer responded. “What is this disgusting thing again?”

“Haha, not over it, aren’t you?” the waiter quickly brought the glass to a rack behind the counter, pouring the drink she wanted from a big bottle with a label. “Torture device.”

“Oh,” her voice was low.

“Riiight. So thank you again,” Helios placed her drink at the counter.

She took her glass, faintly thanking the waiter for the drink she just got. Glancing around, the Black Knight’s eyes met hers just right when she was about to sip her drink.

He paused, giving her a nod to acknowledge her presence as he brought the jug to his lips.

She smiled, lifting her glass as a reply to his gesture. “That was thoughtful of you!”

He choked on his own drink and spilled the rest all over his cape.

* * *

 

The very next morning, the news reached to her like thunder.

Even if she wanted to disregard it conveniently and took it to sleep, she could not. First, she had to wake up and start the day as usual. There would be groceries needing to be procured as always, which usually resulted in her morning market stroll as she typically did the first time in the morning. Second, there was… _that._

The dancer felt blissfully contended that day. She did wake up a little later compared to her usual hour—the sun was warmer when she opened her windows, and the sky had turned golden instead of blue-ish with shimmering yellow.

Humming, she would have taken longer time before the mirror to get dressed if not the sudden realization of having to go to the market to fill up her kitchen as usual. The market in the morning was typically bustling, and had she waited until noon, there would be a good chance that there was hardly anything left for her to purchase. Goods tended to arrive past-midnight, with buyers and producers flocking in Darna to complete their transactions. Vegetables would be fresher and early dedicated shoppers who checked the market as early as five in the morning might get the best sea products they could bargain for, arriving fresh from first-hand suppliers with fishermen who would be rather happy to negotiate their prices.

Lene nimbly laced her dress. Not wanting to spare more minute to waste, she simply combed her hair with her fingers before making a swift tight braid instead of the typical ponytail requiring comb work. Rolling her braid upward, she settled it into a bun with the help of her trusty pink ribbon—the very same soft ribbon the Black Knight Ares dreaded to wear when he lost a bet against her.

Lene giggled softly when the thought of him lingered in her mind. Yesterday bar-workers thought they missed half of their soul because the deadly warrior had coughed so hard that canopies might fly. She had rushed to him because… he literally choked on his drink the moment she smiled at him, and although she did not really understand what was going on, she felt a bit guilty, as if she had personally choked Ares with a scarf before throwing a drink in his face.

Of course that wasn’t what happened at all, but still. The warrior had to ride back to the mercenary headquarter without a cape, which he begrudgingly tucked with the rest of his things inside the satchel he fixed on his horse.

Weird, she thought. Ares was ever-guarded. Perhaps it was bad that she made him eat white chocolate because his sweet-tolerance was… _that_ low?

But Ares drank tea. And ginger ale. And ate delicious pear and orange. He did not choke on them.

The dancer made a smile in front of the mirror...

No, there was nothing weird there. She still appeared like a human being; like a human female, like the Lene she recognized.

She smiled again.

Again, it was her own reflection she was facing! So what happened?

Lene took her purse and adjusted her shoes. Well, if she met Ares again today, she’d just ask. Even if she looked weird and there might be a thick chance for Ares to be too polite to point out at her face, for as long as she knew him, he did not lie.

Lene rolled her scarf around her. Humming again for feeling comfortable, she set out for the market. And it was there that she found this second ‘that’ of what happened today.

People quickly dispersed when they caught her incoming presence. Some of them whispered, making a way for her to pass. And just like that, she started to feel annoyed. That was too early to be judgmental of her, no? At least wait until the night fell where her dances started so they could point and tell!

She wasn’t feeling it, but she was tempted to ask nonetheless. “Something the matter?” her tone was unpleasant and she did not care. If people wanted a war this early, a war they would get then.

“Sir Black Knight,” a fishmonger whispered to her. “He seems to be in a bad mood.”

“… Huh?” she quickly braved the crowd. Ares—in a bad mood? Alright, Ares was a person too, and he wasn’t as unfeeling as people made it to be. But how bad it was if he had to terrify people so early in the morning? And hold on—no. Just like what she told Helios yesterday, she trusted Ares. She could not imagine Ares picking fights and destroying things out of sheer bloodlust!

“It’s the dancer,” some people whispered again, dispersing so she could pass through.

“Would it be wise to let her get close? It’s the Black Knight, for fuck’s sake, not even five men could hold him down.”

“I heard they are acquaintances.”

“Still, it’s just a petite girl trying to rein the lion…”

“I’m… uh, excuse me, but Ares is…?” confused, Lene did not bother to fix her dictions.

“He got people to challenge him. His wish,” one of the gossipers filled her in. “And people were losing.”

Challenge? Ares? Lene stretched her hands, yanking people left and right as she passed. And people had to accept making the way for her like a queen.  

She saw Ares seating himself on top of a wooden crate. There was no cape, neither was there black overdress he usually wore under it. Ares striped down to his breeches and only had short-sleeved ivory-colored undershirt over his line-decorated white pants, and Lene thought her jaw had dropped to the ground. It was as if he straight raced to the market the moment he woke up, and… really, was he in such sour, sour mood that he dressed in light colors this time?

Of course he still had his black boots on, and Mystletainn was still sheathed finely at his waist. But…

“… Ares?” she called on him.

He quickly tilted his head upon hearing that. Of course he recognized her voice. And even without that, he knew it was her. Who else would bother to call him by his name—in neutral tone, too—if not her? “Perfect timing. You came,” he nodded at her. “Shopping?”

“I thought I was going to!” she rushed to him, and he simply moved a bit to make room for the wooden crate he was sitting in. “Um…”

He gestured to the crate, so she sat down.

“Well?” she asked. “What gives?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already had some bread to help me start the day,” he waved his hand. “I want to reassess my strengths and weaknesses.”

“I thought you were aware. Like how you said fighting in the forest was hard, fog battle was hard, and magical spells were dangerous enough for you to take,” she toned down her voice, not wanting anyone else deliberately heard these things. There were things even the strong Ares could not take, and she dreaded people utilizing the knowledge to bring him down.

“Right. But what happened yesterday was grave,” he responded, balling his fist and relaxing it again and again. “Taken off guard. I don’t like it. I must be lacking training.”

“Lacking training?” she frowned. “But nobody fought you yesterday!”

“Helios and I had a match.”

“Ares, that was not a match. A contest. And not even martial contest.”

“I know. Exactly why.”

“I don’t understand…” she wanted to press on, but Ares had grabbed at the nearest guy who just innocently passed by, unaware of everything.

“Sir. Hold on for a second. Fight me.”

“What? Are you drunk, or are you delirious?!”

“Neither. One arm-wrestling match, and I’ll let you go.”

“Huh?”

“Ares, what…” Lene wanted to jump in, but Ares had seated the poor passerby in front of him. The passerby, still felt weirded by everything, obliged with crystal-clear confusion on his face. He put his hand over a pile of wooden crate the warrior had set somehow, locking arms against the Black Knight in just seconds after.

It was an easy victory—Ares slammed his opponent’s arm without breaking a sweat. “Thank you,” he muttered. The passerby whined a thing or two about feeling like being _hammered_ down after getting a taste of the Black Knight’s strength, leaping to the street shouting at people to evade the aisle because Ares was out with a bloodlust.

Lene slammed her shoes against the ground, prompting the crowd to stop. “He is not ‘out for blood’, for fuck’s sake!” she yelled, prompting people to stop like they were forced to reexamine themselves. “Ares is a mercenary, not a bloodthirsty manslayer! So can you stop treating him like an irrational beast?!”

“… Lene,” he tugged on her. “It’s alright. After all, I did want to be challenged.”

She exhaled. “And no, _you_ shut up too!” she yanked his mullet, prompting the same crowd to gasp. Half of them stared in utter horror while another half _beamed_ with admiration. Now they understood why the understanding crowd prior had dispersed to make a way for her like a queen! The ones in shock, though, quickly mumbled prayers to Naga or any deity they knew thinking the girl had a death wish.

“I… alright,” Ares gasped the moment her grip took his hair prisoner. And the crowd gasped with him too—he yielded? So easily? Why, it was just their beautiful dancer yanking his hair. Sure he could overpower her in seconds if he so wished? And hold on—why was he so obedient toward her like that?

“Ares, you shouldn’t…” Lene inhaled, not sure how to start. “Ummm. Come with me, please. Come on.”

“My apologies, but today I will defy you. I want to fight a hundred guys before noon, and so far I could only capture twenty.”

“C-capture??” some men began to wildly run away, and Lene had to slap herself in the forehead.

Ares really said that with a straight, straight face and deadpan tone—making Lene unsure if she’d rather smack him with her shoe or eat that shoe herself. “No, Ares,” she _glared_ at him before turning at the running crowd. “No—get back here, darn it, he won’t do anything, this one is a cute cub!!”

“C… cute? Him?” a shopper paled. She quickly took the dancer to the side. “Dearest child, what are you even doing here?! Save yourself, run, come on! He is the BLACK KNIGHT!”

“I—yes, he is!” Lene sighed, turning down the well-meaning lady. “Actually—no. His name is Ares.”

“Goodness gracious, Miss. You’re still young. Even if you want to die, there are other ways.”

Lene shook her head, frustrated. And Ares still looked at her… innocently.

“Ares,” she started.

“Not this time,” he replied with a gruff voice.

 _“Ares,”_ she repeated, harsher.

“See, I was pretty steadfast yesterday,” the warrior finally got up, folding his arms. “I held on to all the temptations Helios threw my way and even began to find a footing to counterattack. Then…”

“With the gory stories,” she cut in.

“Well—yes,” his expression turned sheepish when he replied.

“Then I showed up,” now _she_ folded her arms.

“Exactly. And that is what I wanted to solve,” he responded earnestly. “Was it the chocolate, or…”

“If the problem is me, don’t take it out on other people!” she huffed. “Come on, Ares. Let’s just end this! For a moment I was really, really worried for you since you even stopped wearing black.”

“Huh? I did not. After all you only see what you can see outside, don’t you?”

“Your—“ she quickly slammed her palm against her mouth, red-faced.

“Yes?” he nodded solemnly. Why, he was still… innocently unfazed.

“Aaah, stop!” she growled, feeling utterly confused and embarrassed at the same time. “Yield.”

“No. This morning, I rebel.”

“As if!” without hesitation, she took his left ear and pinched it, slightly twisting it—too gentle to do actual damage, still, but enough to shock him that he grimaced.

“Hnnngh—alright—“

People could only stare as the dancer released his ear from the captivity of her hand, dragging the supposedly mighty Black Knight away now that her grip shifted to his arm. After a serene silence for a minute or two, a courageous soul brought back the color that was lost. “F-formidable, that young miss.”

“Gods, I was so scared for my life for a second!”

“Same here.”

“But why was he so obedient like that?”

“Beats me. The dancer effect?”

“Sir Black Knight likes dances? Who would have thought!”

Murmurs exchanged, jaws flexed, the crowd finally dispersed again. As the market gradually returned to its peaceful state, Darnaians in the market had so many questions that morning .

* * *

 

She set a tray before him.

A nice, fragrant cup of coffee filled her beautiful rose gold teacup, and beside it, there was a plate with floral imprint on the porcelain containing perfectly baked toasts and potato cuts with mouth-watering grilled chicken sausages, with seasoned scrambled egg and roasted peanuts.

“Thank you,” he commented sincerely before looking down on his plate. “… Wow.”

She took a seat in front of him. They were in her apartment as it was the closest place from the market. Somehow she did not feel like taking him back to the mercenary headquarter—first she was not in the mood to deal with sneering comments from Javarro or his other comrades, about her being a dancer and oh-the-damsel a mighty warrior like him did not need around.

Second, she would have guessed he’d want something filling and hearty to start the day. If he was so concerned of the apparent dulled skill and so forth to the point of not dressing in black, she wouldn’t be surprised if this ‘some bread’ he spoke of was akin to any last night-leftover finding he scraped out of wherever it was his group stashed their food provisions and cooked them.

He had previously conveyed—subtly, as he might be too embarrassed about it—that he liked the atmosphere of her apartment because it was peaceful. Her bedroom which he stayed in for a night when he was sick smelled nice and fresh because of the flowers she put there, and her little kitchen… pantry, or whatever the suitable word was somehow warmed his heart as it reminded him of a real home. One he used to know, one he used to have, one he used to live in…

And she never admitted that she actually liked pampering him like that. It made her feel tranquil too, being able to share food with him, occasionally chuckling at his innocent-but-well-meaning reactions like a child who just had his first time in this world. At the same time, it made her feel sad. Because these gestures were supposed to be normal. Yet there he was, looking absolutely grateful like he did not truly expect that she’d recognize him as another human being and treated him just like any person would to the people they were friends with.

Just like now.

“You must be hungry,” she settled comfortably on her sofa near the door, her legs folded beside her. She had convinced him to sit there because he’d been pretty stubborn about staying inside, at her dining table near the pantry. Only a word of supposed promise that she’d release him to the wilderness… well, letting him back to challenge street passerby again that he obliged.

He cut the egg, neatly folding it before poking it to eat with the fork she had set. “I did not know I am.”

His simple answer earned a satisfied sigh from her. Now _that_ was the Ares she knew, and it was indeed satisfying to see him ravaging the breakfast platter she fixed for him. Suddenly she wanted to ask Javarro if the mercenary chief needed a cooking training or something. Ares did chores and labors besides being outside to fight from sunrise to sunset—a delicious _human meal_ would have been a modest nicety he could hope to have.

She grimaced wryly, though—Javarro would give Ares an earful about getting too delicate just because he had a close female companion with feminine characteristics. No, she wouldn’t let that happen.

Ares closed his eyes for a second; savoring the breakfast she made him, basking in the delightful aroma of that morning coffee she poured for him. He might be dense at times, but her choice of coffee—instead of tea—did not escape him. “Thank you, Lene.”

She nodded, standing up to take the now cleaned plate and emptied cup to the pantry.

“I’ll do that,” he quickly commented.

She let him. She let him wash the utensils for her. She let him sweep the floor when he was done putting back the rinsed plate, cutlery, and the cup to their respective shelves. She let him scrub her kitchen counter clean, noticing how at peace he appeared to be, doing domestic chores like that with Mystletainn being left idle on the sofa he occupied prior.

“Is there any…” Ares craned his neck to speak to her from the pantry. His sleeves were rolled upwards, and he was putting back the broom to where he procured it.

Just then she leaped from the sofa, reaching him like she flew to get to him. “Ares.”

His eyes awakened in a second like a flashing lightning. He took her by the waist, swaying her so that she was positioned strategically behind him. “Danger?”

“No,” she murmured, steadying the breath she thought was lost because of his reaction.

“… Ah,” he replied, looking a bit guilty and awkward. “Sorry for touching you like that.”

“It’s alright,” she emerged from behind his back. “Sorry for startling you.”

“It’s alright,” he responded. “… Why are you laughing?”

She stopped her pleasant giggles. “Because it’s like we just took turn saying the same thing!”

“… Oh,” he muttered sheepishly. “Well…”

“More coffee?” she smiled. “Or some water? Should I get you both?”

“Both will be nice. Thank you,” he, still awkward, could only tail her back to the sofa.

“So, what was that all about?” she set the drinks back to the small table across the sofa.

“I just don’t understand,” the Black Knight replied, looking so, so honest and naively innocent at the same time. And despite being unsaid, the dancer really wanted to throw a blanket over him at this point, because no longer was he the fearsome warrior, for at this rate he was just a curious child…

“About what?”

“Can I… borrow a carrot? Or a potato? A board—something I can hit?”

“Huh?”

“Can I?”

That was even more innocent than prior, so she got up again, finding a single turnip from her kitchen cabinet. Placing it on the table, she returned to the sofa, waiting.

He swiftly reached for his sword. Unsheathing it with a godlike speed, he swung the fabled Demon Sword in one sharp strike in the similar manner of striking down his opponent. She clutched onto the cushion—it wasn’t that she feared him, but despite having seen him drawing his sword multiple times, there was something about that sword which emanated strong killing aura that was overwhelming no matter how long or how well she had known the wielder…

The turnip broke in twain following a snap sound.

“… I still cut well,” Ares murmured, sheathing the blade again. “I, eh, this one…”

“It’s okay, Ares, I’ll keep it back for the lunch later,” she smiled reassuringly, understanding too well what he wanted to convey. She wouldn’t doubt he’d throw it away if he wasn’t so painfully honest.

“Alright,” he nodded. “So, if I’m not lacking anything, then why…”

“Why what?”

“Why did I get defeated?”

Such an honest question. “But _who_ defeated you again?” she responded, getting confused. So he was dead serious about this? Not that he was feeling under the mood thinking his skill was getting dull?

“Yesterday?” he set Mystletainn aside.

“Did you think your skill deteriorated, or was it just because you are a sore-loser?” she asked.

He paused. First—he forgot she was just as honest as he was. Second, of course he admired that about her. The way she cornered him with the questions he needed to hear but nobody else ever asked, the way she knocked on his senses through their conversations. The way she made him contemplate—and probably reconsider—things he did not even bother to think of before.

But was he? Alright, he was just a normal guy who probably got a bit irritated being bested so easily at the things he least expected to pose a challenge against him. But was that all about it?

“It was tempting to laugh, yes,” he thought again, fiddling with the hilt of his sword. “But it was just Helios. And I’d have made him green-faced disgusted-sick if…”

“If I did not show up,” she cut in.

He nodded.

“And you stopped because you were being mindful of me! Why, aren’t you so kind~! So what’s the _actual_ problem here, Ares, now that you see your cut is still as deadly as always? Hnnn~?”

“Exactly that. You see, you showed up and I felt my strength evaporated out of me,” he grumbled.

“W… what? But I never meant any harm against you!” she protested.

“I know. And exactly because I know. So what happened?” his eyebrows knitted. Taking a piece of the turnip he cut, he balled a fist and seriously punched it.

“That was… hard too. See, you destroyed the turnip. I don’t think there is anything wrong with you at all,” she pointed at the damaged turnip.

“Is it because you did not smile?” he pondered. “I’m going to punch it again.”

“Nooo. That’s enough brooding, stop abusing the poor dead turnip,” she chuckled, lightly elbowing him.

He dropped the turnip.

She stopped laughing.

“… Like that,” he murmured. “I—gahhh.”

“I have no idea what this is all about, but…” she picked up the turnip. “Ares, if you kept hammering your fist like that then this one would not be usable anymore.”

“Hrrrh. Alright, I’ll stop.”

“No picking fights and challenging people today, alright?” she ticked his nose.

“Alright, not today,” he replied in a begrudging manner.

“Not the next morning or the morning after that either, you hear me?” she yanked his mullet.

“… Alright,” the warrior sighed.

“Good~! Now enjoy your coffee,” she giggled again, satisfied. Regardless of how curious Ares was, she knew he’d listen to her and actually stop doing that.

“See,” he pointed at her. “Like that, and I feel weak.”

“Eeeh?”

“Maybe you have some sort of hidden power?” he leaned in closer, observing her sharply. “Interesting. Perhaps you have some sort of unrevealed magical capability but dormant all these months?”

“Of course not! What were you thinking?!” she waved her hand back and forth, withdrawing because somehow his sharp, focused gaze like that made her shy.

“Then how did you do it, defeating me?” the Black Knight clasped his chin like he was truly, truly contemplating hard on a haunting unsolved mystery.

“Defeating you—excuse me?” she was truly baffled now.

“I don’t understand,” he repeated—this time rubbing on his nose. “When you leaped to get to me, out of reflex I thought you were in danger. And you see, based on the events we experienced before this…“ he noticed her expression turned gloomy, so he gently placed his hands over her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I really did not mean to bring back… unpleasant memories or traumatic experiences.”

“Hnnn,” she nodded.

“But I was curious, admittedly,” he went on. “When I thought you were, everything was clear. I mean—I’m so alert that I could hear your heartbeat if I really forced my ears to. As in, extremely vigilant.”

“… Alright?” she commented, unsure of what to make with this… what was this again, honesty?

“And when you looked so contended and be at peace—like yesterday and now, smiling, laughing…” he scratched his head, “… It’s like I can’t fight anymore.”

“H-huh?”

“I can’t, but I want to,” he emphasized on the second verb. “I mean. It’s like I have no desire to pick up a sword under such warm, tranquil atmosphere. But the moment I know something… someone… would bother you enough that you stop smiling,” he glanced at Mystletainn, “I have the urge to fix it.”

“Gods—Ares.”

“Weird, right?” he asked, seriously asked, again, fiddling with Mystletainn. “And I know I can. What previously evaporated would be back—shimmering hot. That very moment, he would be my prey.”

“Oooh, gods,” she clasped her mouth, not before long because she shifted, softly chuckling incessantly after hearing his… well, utmost, utmost honesty. “I tell you what, you are very cute.”

“No. This isn’t cute, I have a swordsman crisis,” he replied, his tone and face equally sullen.

“There is no such a thing!” she kept laughing. “At least not in your case~! I know the answer—it’s just because you are really kind. And of course, because you are Ares. And this Ares is kind,” she played with her dictions, successfully ending all the planned “But” and “Wait” he had in mind.

“Hmmm. In conclusion, you think I’m not lacking anything?”

“There is something, though!” she giggled back and forth. “Fashion sense.”

“… Lene.”

“Hnnn~?”

“See, like that! Are you sure…” he wanted to protest, but her index finger reigned on his lips.

“I’m sure. Just be the best, kindest Ares that you can be,” she smiled. “And I know you can…” she took the other turnip piece he had not attacked, balling her own fist. She squealed softly when her knuckle slammed against it, now red with a faint grazing cut after hammering the turnip. “See…”

“Yes, let me see,” he quickly took her hand. “Oh, it’s red…”

“I still can’t make a fist properly,” she chuckled. “And it’s alright.  Sorry for that—I was startled.”

“Yelping in pain is humane, don’t worry,” he nodded. “But what was that for?”

“I mean. See, there is no swordsman crisis. I’m not your rival,” she kept smiling…

“I guess,” he finally conceded. “If you said so, then I believe you.”

“Good~! Now now, want more peanuts for your coffee?” she replied cheerfully.

“Hmmm. Even if you convinced me, I’m not satisfied yet,” he remarked, setting the turnip aside, making some room on the table. “Let’s test it then, Lene. Try taking me down.”

“What?” the dancer replied. “Gods, Ares—seriously?”

“Yes. Arm-wrestle with me?” he already set the required position on the table.

“Umm…”

“Oh no, I won’t drag your arm down and hurt you. I just want to know if what you said is indeed how it is,” he stated innocently. “I’ll just defend. The moment I feel you putting more power so that you can move me, I’ll yield. Just it.”

“Okay,” she approached the table. “Uh—how do you do this again?”

“You have never arm-wrestled before?” he asked.

“Of course! Why are you so surprised?” she yanked his hair.

“Hmmm. Perhaps it was indeed some secret magic potential.”

“Told you there’s no such a thing!” she yanked his hair again.

“Hmmm… is that so?” he remarked innocently, helping her to fix her arm on the table. “Ready?”

“Keep your word, alright?”

“On my honor, rabbit.”

She yanked his hair for the third time in that spur moment.

And there she was, her arm entangling with his, her hand clasping against his. For a second she nearly felt overwhelmed—he had not done anything yet, but she could feel it; his strength potently radiating from him, his muscle starting to contract as if his body awakened the nerves and biceps to prepare for a battle. That steadiness, the battle-hardened everything preparing him to pounce on his opponent.

And right now she was supposed to be his opponent.

“No ponytail today?” he blurted mindlessly, anticipating for her arm to press on against his.

“Nooope. Woke up late,” she shook her head, smiling. “I call this finger-combed accidental braid.”

“I see,” he replied. “… Where is the attack?”

“I… just did?”

“I didn’t feel anything.”

“Oh, you,” again, she yanked his mullet.

“Hmmm,” he muttered simply. “Oh. Pink ribbon?”

“Yes! Pretty, isn’t it?” she beamed at him, smiling warmly.

“Ah…”

She paused.

He paused.

That morning, for the first time the fearsome Black Knight lost an arm-wrestling contest against the dancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I'm sorry this took a month to update OTL was in the mood for something heart-warming and fluffy... allegedly (geddit, geddit? |D)
> 
> As a side note, my, Ares is an endearing dork tbh.


	23. Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of blood, glory...
> 
> And beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, again, sorry (again!) for this long-ish chapter!
> 
> To be honest I find AreRin fun to write, like you could use romance tropes and action tropes into their frames while still having fun with it. The challenge theme was "Knife" and I really was blank-white on what to make out of the theme until suddenly this crazy(?) idea popped in my mind.
> 
> I hope this is still nice enough to read, and forewarning, GORE.
> 
> [ Anyway, I wrote this in one turn (sobs) so I'll be back to hunt for typos / errors. I hope you can absolve me :P ]

He gritted his teeth.

The room where he sat was not at all nice; it was cold, damp, and offered little to no comfort to stay in. There was barely anything on the cold hard concrete floor he could use to make staying bearable, except a really simple mat which was woven out of low quality straws and hays like some production waste or unwanted leftovers. There were three bowls being placed in front of him—one containing remnants of simple potato soup they gave him, another containing water he was supposed to hydrate himself with, and another…

“It can be worse,” someone beside him broke the looming silence. The air around them still smelled the same—unpleasant. He forgot how long he had been inside. He did not really pay attention, knowing well that when his calculation matched, it would be akin to a self-fulfilling prophecy because his departure was certain. If he had to be thankful for something, however, unpleasant it might be, the air wasn’t foul.

He closed his eyes. A venomous smirk flashed in the darkness surrounding the room they were in. Of course his cell mate was not aware of it. After all, why would he be? The other guy was just a petty thief. A petty thief who got caught robbing a rich old man, for he punched him in the face before slitting the victim’s beautifully-woven velvet money pouch off his regal robe. A petty thief who only had a throwing dagger under his ragged clothing, which offered minimum protection if he had to face off against one of those armor-wearing castle troopers.

There was only one problem, though—the old man he punched and robbed happened to be a merchant aiming to visit Count Bramsel.

* * *

 

Darna’s ruler was known for his knack in business, and it was just a public secret that those seeking to do business and invest might as well be prepared to try securing the Count’s favor first. Nobody but the famed Darnaian dancer Lene to ever clearly call it as it was—nepotism, if not Bramsel being a dirty old man which was also a public secret at this point. That said, it was typical to see merchants and business people entering Darna to get to the castle. And again, the dancer would merely sneer, knowing well that out of the fortunes which graced their region the moments those exalted guests came to visit, perhaps only twenty percent of it would eventually reach the people.

“Of course I can make it easier for you, dear,” Bramsel had said one time, when the dancer, tried to keep her expression monotone, had pointed at a ragged beggar digging into the bar’s trashcan outside.

“Their happiness is my happiness, my lord,” Lene had responded then, clasping her palms behind her back because what Bramsel said made her shudder. She was probably young, but not even the age could shield her from not seeing the poison in Bramsel’s eyes when he spoke the words.

“So beautiful, yet so worn-out by life,” the Count cooed. “Why must you suffer like this, my lovely?”

By then the mercenary group returned to the bar. Boisterous laughter followed as Javarro’s muscular stature came inside while some other mercenaries loaded two wooden crates from a cart. And the dancer secretly thanked her luck because when the group’s strongest blade strolled in, people automatically cleared the way from him for they even went as far as not daring to look him in the eyes for more than what might constitute as casual, accidental eying.

But to her it was enough. Javarro pushed the Black Knight Ares into Bramsel’s direction, supposedly retelling the tales of glory and valor from the battlefield. His loud voice paraded the warrior to the bar-goers, because he was the one who was supposed to continue the group’s legacy; the prized one with a peerless blade. How the Demon Sword ended lives even before breaths were taken, so swift and agile he was, pouncing at his advancing opponents that they barely felt anything until when it was too late.

She did not care. His arrival meant Bramsel was distracted enough to demand a response from her, and as always his wide shoulders would act as a barrier between the Count and herself. The Black Knight Ares barely batted an eye when Javarro rambled and rambled, when the Count had looked at him with such appraising stares. But when the Count suggested her to come entertaining in the manor with the group in tow, the Black Knight’s eyes were wide open, and a single reply buried the suggestion alive.

“I barely have a drink and you proposed a trip?  I want her entertaining me tonight.”

That tone was crass, not the kind of tone he would use when speaking to her. But if anything, she read him better than the rest of bar-goers would ever dream of, so flashing her stage-trained smile she sweetly excused herself from Count Bramsel, from Javarro, from other mercenaries who might also want her. “At your service, Sir Ares,” demurely she said, like the _supposed_ dainty little thing she was.

She could not call him Black Knight.

Not anymore when she knew his birth name, not since the night he gifted the purse to her.

Lene thought Ares smirked when she hopped onto the stage.

* * *

 

“So, why are you here?”

He paused for a while. “Some adventures,” he finally said, recalling his gleeful exits as he hopped and climbed around to evade castle troopers. “Then three days ago the moon looked so beautiful that I got distracted.”

“Really?”

“Life is short. What is it for, if not beauty and glory?” he responded, chuckling. A castle trooper passing by shouted at him, telling him to stop talking—and laughing. “Easy there, Sir. I know my place,” he merely looked at the soldier, his voice was light as if he was not in there being jailed.

… Right, jail. The place he had been staying for three days by now. And in the dark, unhygienic small cramped space allocated for him and his cell mate, his smile flashed again. Oh, short life, short life, too short for a dream, but long enough to delve in the pursuit of beauty and glory. And he despised them for taking him here, grouping him with a petty thief who probably shouldn’t even be jailed for three days in the first place; for occupying the same somber cell like he was.

He was not a saint. Far from that. Blood had colored his weapons of choice too often than what he could remember. But even so he was too smart not to notice that the primordial sin of the petty thief being jailed with him was just because he chose the wrong target. Because the old man was Bramsel’s guest.

Yet there they were, occupying the same cell. At least when being told by a sadistic warden that they had to share using the same metal bowl to relieve themselves, he knew that he had been quite a menace that they decided to imprison him here. It was simply a voice in his head telling him to behave that he did not just cackle at the warden’s face right away, as if the prospect of the condition of a cell reserved for high-level criminals like him would deter him from feeling accomplished.

Life was short, he said—but long enough to pursue beauty and glory.

And glory was still a glory, regardless of how dirty or dishonorable it might be.

“I was just hungry,” the petty thief murmured, feeling so dejected upon seeing the cursed metal bowl they were supposed to share. “That old fart weighed five kilos heavier because of the money he carried.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t need to share that with me any longer,” he pointed at the bowl.

“… For someone facing the gallows, you are sure fearless,” the petty thief responded. “Or perhaps you no longer care. Depressing life and impending misfortune do that to people.”

“Gallows?” he chuckled again. “My friend, I don’t want to surrender yet. I will do such when they lock me somewhere nicer than this.”

The petty thief snickered. “Look, I don’t know what went through your head there, pal, but sometimes not even noble lords were spared from atrocities once they got thrown into dungeons. Ever heard of Eldigan of Nordion? Lionheart this, Lionheart that, yet where is he now—or rather, should I say, where is his head now? All his life sitting on a golden throne, yet spending the last hour of his life in a dungeon.”

“Why would I care again, friend?” he cackled, looking so pleasantly entertained then. “If anything, he should be satisfied. See, life is short. And not even titled heads are spared from it. At least he tasted beauty and glory for as long as his head was intact.”

“I don’t understand you,” the petty thief mumbled, feeling weirded even more so then. His cell mate was odd, if not eccentric. He had been playing with pebbles and hardly appeared scared or intimidated when castle troopers yelled at him. He hardly made any comments when wardens fed them foods only a level higher than what people might want to give their cattle. But during those idly hours he would just… carve. Carve, carve, and carve, like he was trying to build an artwork out of miserable prison tiles.

Of course it earned him immediate inspection from the wardens. But even after three punches in the face, his cell mate merely kept his lips tight, eyes gleaming like a gold-miner. When they dropped him to the ground after not finding anything suspicious which might signal an escape plan, his cell mate laughed, laughed, and laughed like everything was nothing but a poor joke to him.

Castle troopers stopped bothering him, and that night the petty thief decided he would rather just hold on because the metal bowl was too close to the eccentric cell occupant.

When the next morning came, however, the petty thief had found his cell mate breaking the dry bread given to inmates as breakfast. At first he thought it was a better kind of bread, because the cut was clean, like the bread had been perfectly cleaved into two parts instead of just being broken into two with the typical hand-pulling.

“Good morning, friend,” he greeted the petty thief then, looking all cheerful. “Hungry?”

The petty thief gazed around. Faint sun rays would light up the dungeon they were locked in, giving a bit of that normal feeling of changing days and shining sun; a little remedy for the inmates trapped in a dungeon craving for a sense of normalcy. He darted a glance on the bread, on the two bowl of simple cream soup they were given to accompany the bread with, finding nothing but two slender metal spoons the wardens had put on their food tray to eat the soup with.

The petty thief shuddered suddenly. The perfect cut, the non-existent weapon the troopers searched off his inmate; the simple metal spoons which just arrived today. And what did the inmates said prior? Adventures. In this short life, only worthy of the pursuit of glory…

The eccentric inmate took one of the spoons again, carving yet another cut into the bread. “Now this makes it easier,” he said, showing how the bread’s skin nicely, easily fell off with one delicate touch. How slices easily fell apart like…

The petty thief gulped.

“What’s the matter? Not hungry?”

The petty thief yelled. No, he _screamed._ Suddenly he screamed, screamed and screamed like something gruesome had entered his mind. Like he just uncovered a forbidden secret.

Troopers came inside the cell, bellowing at him, telling him to shut up. The petty thief beseeched them to put him in another cell, away from the eccentric inmate, who only stared at the whole commotion with questioning stares as he serenely chewed on his bread. Castle troopers had rained their hurting, military boot-covered kicks against the petty thief, who was now whimpering in pain trying his best to keep a distance between himself and the eccentric inmate.

He chuckled. At first it sounded like a gleeful child’s giggles, but as they became louder, giggles turned into chuckles, and chuckles into laughter before they budded into cackles. “Oh, dear, how poor you,” he gestured to the petty thief. “So much in pain, and what for?”

“N-no,” the petty thief writhed. “I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” he repeated, with the same giddy smile on his face. “Or because you understand?”

* * *

 

He glanced to find the sky turning dark. He was not sure if he truly cared about weather at this point, but with his past experience showing him that he was not immune to sickness, more or less he started paying attention. For example, adding more things in his traveling satchel he slung over his horse to anticipate unexpected changes—from extra ration to some herbs he started carrying as well, herbs which did not function as disinfectant or remedies to treat wounds and poisons.

“Ares,” from the pavilion where his room was, he saw Javarro waving downstairs. Obediently he climbed down the stairs, with Mystletainn sitting idly in his left hand.

“Yeah?”

“Going somewhere?”

He felt rather uneasy out of a sudden. For a reason he did not know. He could have said yes and be done with it, but just as the hunch he suddenly felt in his chest, he suspected Javarro would not stop at a yes-no question like that.

“For a drink,” he finally said.

“For a dance too?” Javarro  snickered.

He did not reply.

“Why, suddenly interested in blowing your money at the bar?” the mercenary chief pushed.

This time he sneered. “You are fussing over me when I don’t, fussing over me when I’m about to.”

Javarro withdrew. He appeared rather taken aback, being answered like that. But it was not for long because he quickly recovered, looking pleased. “Finally you understand the finery of life,” the mercenary chief responded. “What did I tell you often, Ares? Life is too short for all those chivalrous shit men fall victim to. Just be the strongest as you always are, pursue glory, play with beauty, and that’s it.”

“You sound lonely.”

Javarro stopped. And the Black Knight looked so regretful at an instant, like he wished he never even said that in the first place.

“And you don’t?”

The Black Knight took his turn pausing.

“What do you know about niceties?” the mercenary chief snickered again. “And what do you know about relationships? You, out of all people, actually care about that?”

“I don’t play with ladies…” Ares blurted, “… I don’t play ladies.”

“Maybe you should so we can ground your head a little,” Javarro spoke again, almost spat. “What do you have in mind? These things you think of are a weakness, Ares. Something you don’t care about won’t hurt you. Something you don’t invest in can’t touch you.”

“… Perhaps you and my father are just different,” Ares glanced around. “He’d say righteous bonds are important, because it gives you a purpose. Chivalry,” he whispered it, his gaze traveled to Mystletainn.  

“And where did it take him?”

Ares turned around. His eyes were fiery-sharp, and his lips were pursed tight. He was barking, barking angrily, ferociously—barking wounded like a hunted animal covered in injuries. “Don’t.”

“Is that not the truth?” the chief kept pushing, even more casually now. “The other night you nearly slammed chest to chest against Bramsel.”

“Is he crying now, and wanting you to spank me?” Ares hissed.

“Bramsel paid her. Bramsel paid us. He paid you,” Javarro folded his arms again. “There. Something to fill your stomach with. What did you pay your ciders with? Ideals? Or love? You know nothing of love.”

Ares was silent.

“He is a merchant. He likes something, he bargains the price. Just like us here.”

“I know. But you should see the way he looked at her. Disgusting.”

“Did you care how your opponents wielded their blades? Yet they are all dead.”

“I…”

“Did you ask before fighting them? No?”

Ares was silent again.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Javarro patted his shoulder, looking pleased that the prized Black Knight had stopped talking, if not like drilling everything he said into his mind. “You are still young. While young men are blessed with heroism, at the same time they are cursed with recklessness.”

“Do not slander my late father, Javarro.”

“Did I, my boy,” the mercenary chief muttered. “Or am I merely stating the truth, because had it been not, what drove him to his early grave? What drove him to be betrayed by his own friend? What drove him to make you fatherless even before you were—as his time and person were absorbed into serving another man who had no qualm sending him to die; a person he exalted only to weave him into a war he did not want? Even if sentimentality was supposed to be worth the price, what did your mother get? You don’t even have a sibling, Ares, if you know what I mean!”

“… You…”

“Easy, boy,” Javarro caught the fist the Black Knight balled half-heartedly at his side. “Sentiment is cute. And cutesy is just that—empty. However it is also a knife. The way it can give you papercut when you are not thoughtful, the way a cook can chop their fingers when going too fast or too clumsy with it.”

Ares growled. But more than that, he groaned. Suddenly he felt so tired. “Get straight to the point.”

“Now you are talking,” Javarro smiled. “Bramsel wasn’t so pleased. He had been wanting the dancer to entertain in the castle again, yet you blew everything when he finally had the time for her.”

“Lene.”

“Yeah, whatever her name is,” the mercenary chief shrugged.

Ares chuckled. Cynically…

“What?”

“Nice change,” he replied bitterly. “I suppose.”

“The hell do you mean?”

“Usually it will be the other way around,” Ares mused, shrugging like he truly was entertained. “She’d be running around telling people that I’ve got a birth name they should call.”

 “… Oi, Ares.”

“Better. The fuck Bramsel want, Javarro?”

Javarro stopped. He looked at the blond-haired warrior again, sensing venom in his voice, watching the fire burning in his eyes. Just then he decided to withdraw this time. “Catching a serial killer. Even if you packed his torn limbs in a sack, he’d still pay.”

“Just one man?”

Javarro nodded. “He’s got no remorse. You may want to keep that in mind.”

“My blade isn’t dull,” Ares narrowed his eyes. “And Mystletainn will never be.”

“Probably,” the chief sneered. “But your mind is.”

The younger man flinched.

“What?” the chief glared at him. “Catch the bastard and I may reconsider that. I’m saying this for your sake. I don’t care if you decide to have ten girls giving you a _private show_ in your room all at once for seven nights straight, Ares, but emotions better be off the table… or the bed, that is.”

“I don’t even lie with her in my bed,” Ares growled. “Neither do I outside.”

“Never? Even more concerning,” Javarro’s glare intensified. “You have never taken her, and yet you are around often when you can? … Shit. Don’t do this to me.”

“Do what?” the Black Knight had his hands in his pockets. “You are not even invited.”

“… Ares…”

“Yeah. I know, I know,” the strongest blade of Darna sighed then. “What’s so special about this man?”

“Someone who kills without remorse or purpose other than the thrill is not dangerous enough for you?” Javarro smirked. “Sometimes I really don’t understand you.”

“Does that answer your question then?” Ares took turn grinning. “How am I dull? Besides, if anything this serial killer sounds like he is ready for a coffin. Dangerous?”

Javarro sighed, under Ares’ watchful eyes, and he was immediately treated to the Black Knight’s… laughter. Cynical, if not _sadistic_ laughter. “Some petty thief tried to rob Bramsel’s business partner,” he held up his arms upwards as if telling his supposed protégé that he had no desire to prolong the debate. “Naturally, Bramsel being Bramsel threw him into the dungeon to save face. Turns out his inmate was this killer. This morning they said the thief escaped, leaving a disfigured corpse which had been terrifyingly maimed. Troopers had suspected the killer to try escaping again so they paid close attention to him, but even after frisking him everyday they did not find any weapon on his person.”

“Now that is interesting,” Ares clasped his chin.

“They were worried since this killer had been in and out the jail for five times now. It was as if he just wanted to get captured to make a point across,” Javarro said. “And well—he did that again. The dead corpse was that of the thief’s. The killer feigned his own death to escape.”

“… Recent victims?”

“Anyone he came across,” Javarro shrugged. “But I suppose, five kids…”

“Kids,” Ares repeated. He never thought after living his life as a paid sword and witnessing all the gruesome things at the battlefield, his stomach still could churn. “… Just kids?”

“Well,” Javarro looked like he was weighing in on something before answering, “… ladies. Especially the young ones from respected families.”

Ares slid Mystletainn back into his belt.

“Hold on,” the mercenary chief quickly caught him by the collar of his cape, “able-bodied men too. That petty thief? Should have killed him when he got the chance. But look what happened when feelings got in the way, huh? Hesitation buried him early.”

“Rest assured since I don’t have that,” the Black Knight licked his lips. Where did this sudden bloodlust come from? Suddenly he wanted this fight to happen. He wanted to see it for himself, and Bramsel be damned to the hellfire and back, he wanted this killer out of Darna, buried or packed in a sack.

“I’ll prepare more arrows and have our entire personnel on guard,” Javarro contemplated. “I suppose it won’t hurt to let you roam the city this time. What if he headed to the market after prison? Somewhere crowded? Somewhere he could find people to maim and torture.”

“… Or bar,” the Black Knight responded as if he was talking to himself. He whistled. His mustang neighed.

“… Hold your horses, Ares.”

“If I didn’t find anything about him today, you better have the gates guarded and treat our headquarter as if we are waging a fog battle,” Ares quickly jumped on his mount the moment the black horse rushed to answer his call. “Send that to Bramsel as well. After all, nothing would speak of glory and beauty like what a titled head keeps in his castle.”

“I already planned to even before talking to you. But boy, the bar. I mean…”

“You want me to hunt, and I’m not even allowed to have a drink?”

* * *

 

Lene sighed.

The sky was dark? What time it was again… she did not even notice. She thought with the weather starting to get warmer, everything would be predictable as always—typical desert climate, with chilly, cold breeze during the night and burning sun during the day. If the weather appeared to be like this, the barkeep probably would not return soon—or he would, if only out of fearing to get rained.

What did the barkeep say prior? Oh—right, he needed to renew the bar’s operating license. And he would have to meet Count Bramsel for that.

If anything, the dancer was utterly grateful for having friends who understood. Female friends, even—must be the reason why the barmaid Maeve went with him instead of her. And hopefully it would satisfy Bramsel as well, so that the Count did not feel like he was truly being avoided.

Well, of course if everything was up to her, Lene would say so. Perhaps she would still prefer dancing in Grannvale rather than at Bramsel’s. Yes, there were these stories… _horrible_ stories… surrounding the current royal family of Grannvale. Yes, there were tales of cruelties under Prince Julius and Emperor Arvis. But the last time she heard, neither the Emperor nor the Prince shared similar characteristics to Bramsel’s… well, womanizing tendencies. _Creepy_ womanizing tendencies, if she should say. And Prince Julius was supposed to have a lover he was committed to, while the Emperor seemed to be too deep in sorrow to engage in such liaison ever again after the shocking death of the Empress.

For short, she was confident that they wouldn’t press her to do the things she did not want. Something besides dancing, that was—considering Grannvale was at its peak as they practically moved unopposed after successfully neutralizing their opponents here and there. Well, heard the Empress was a truly kind woman, nowhere near was she close to even an inch of Queen Hilda’s… exploits of cruelty.

Sometimes Lene did not know anymore. After all she was not sure if she could trust anyone with anything anymore, considering only faith… well, perhaps a blind one too that was… kept her dancing with this hope that it would someday bring her long-lost mother back. Stories she heard usually came from the audiences who chatted with her on the nights she performed. And perhaps ignorance was bliss, too, because if all these things were true, then it would be merely a matter of time until the weight of the world broke on her back. Even listening to these stories was stressful and exhausting.

… And she was too smart to not knowing. She was too smart to let the world break her.

So, with the barkeep journeying with Maeve—the master of the words and flowery talks—to have their bar sanctified again by the law, it was up to Adela to oversee food purchases for the week. She had taken a carriage with Helios and Aldo as soon as they were done sweeping the floor clean, possibly to draft the cheerful waiters as her handymen. Adela was the cook; she would need to inspect all the ingredients the bar purchased, and probably tasted some wine with both waiters too.

Aldo had cheerfully asked if she wanted to come along, probably tasting wine for free here and there for their purchase—but she had refused. She already felt like she could not take kindness without giving something back, even if only for not wanting to feel like she owed her life to another.

Of course Lene did not always think in business. She already felt guilty that Maeve volunteered to go with the barkeep to see Bramsel—first knowing well how persistent the Count could be, and how anxious the barkeep was. Second, of course Maeve did not need to be told Bramsel had his eyes on her. If anything, Maeve was the best person to ask for such things—she had ventured the world before Lene did, and this time she shielded her again like the older sister she never had.

So Lene volunteered to keep the bar clean while taking care of the rest. She had labored herself in the kitchen, chopping everything Adela listed she hoped to be done around five, exactly before dinner-goers came to have a bite. Taking care of each other. In this cruel, cruel world and unforgiving desert…

Lene slapped her forehead, forgetting the bar counter she needed to clean. Taking off the apron she borrowed from Aldo, she threw it around carelessly, putting down the knife she was holding with a red meat waiting to be filleted.

The dancer clicked her tongue, slightly annoyed when some water splashed against her dress. It was of grayish broken-white color with embroidered swirling floral motifs, of ankle length and giving the allusion of a slender shape because the material seamlessly fell accordingly instead of being made of stiffer material. The color of the dress helped concealing the spilled water mark, and she was about to grab a rag when she saw a figure coming inside.

“Just a minute!” she shouted. “I’m sorry, but for a few hours we only accept drinkers because…” her voice reached the customer even before she was able to completely open the doors. “… Ares?”

“Lene,” the warrior spoke of her name, looking so satisfied as if she was a quill he had been dying to find again. “Alone?”

“Yes! Uncle Barkeep and Maeve are going to Bramsel’s for the bar. The rest help Adela shopping,” she smiled at him. “Cider?”

“How did you know?” the warrior felt tickled.

“Hnnn~? Why, Ares, because usually that’s what you order when you stroll in during cozy hours like this!” she chuckled. “Want to house your horse? I’m worried it’s going to rain…”

“Good idea,” Ares nodded.

“Alright~! The drink will be here when you return.”

“… Lene?”

“Ah—yes?” she looked at him, feeling rather astonished because he had touched her arm, nudging her softly like he did not want to leave.

“If…” Ares paused, not knowing how to start. “Have you heard of what happened at Bramsel’s today?”

The dancer shook her head. “I don’t really feel like knowing anything about him until the day I have to interact with him again,” she replied earnestly. “Interacting with him is exhausting already.”

“I understand,” Ares responded. “That’s… reasonable.”

“So…” the dancer wanted to ask, but the warrior nudged her again.

“Would you mind housing this boy with me?”

“Hnnn~? Why, Ares, are you lost?” she let out series of soft giggles. “Of course I don’t mind! Actually, I’m chopping vegetables right now. Let’s grab two carrots or three from the kitchen, what do you think?”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Hehe. Why, Ares, it’s like you miss me.”

“… I could have,” the warrior spoke, quickly regretting what he just did.

“Huh?”

“Or perhaps I do.”

“… Don’t joke like that,” the dancer whispered, gently jamming her nails into the warrior’s ribs.

Ares did not respond even after she stopped poking him. The dancer looked at him again, tilting her head to catch any sign of response from the mighty mercenary. But Ares did not say anything—instead he looked around, and even strolled here and there lifting some chairs and tables.

She felt a bit disappointed somehow, facing an expression-less Ares like that. Usually Ares would always answer, always reply no matter how awkward he sounded, even if he had to retreat for losing against her. But this Ares was different. He was restless. Like a hungry predator who wanted to capture his prey.

… Was he on a hunt?

“Ares! Ares, what are you doing?” she rushed to him when the warrior lifted another table.

“Not here,” the warrior mumbled. The dancer could only stare wide-eyed when the fearsome warrior unsheathed his sword, stabbing through the wooden wall here and there. “Lene, get your purse and everything. Let’s go to the market.”

“What?”

“I can’t leave you alone like this,” Ares replied, looking incredibly resolved. “Seal this place. Leave a message where you guys usually do to each other in case anyone comes in too early or late.”

“I don’t understand,” the dancer replied. “What is… happening?”

“No time to explain. Come on,” the warrior clenched her wrist, taking her with him.

“No, Ares, wait!” Lene wanted to protest, but Ares just conveniently took her with him as he walked. The dancer could only _stare_ again—was this her Ares, the Ares she knew? He appeared to be so cold and devoid that if he wore a mask, she would have kicked him in the crotch thinking it was some drunkard trying to mess with her. It was as if he had tried avoiding eye contact with her as well!

“Ares,” she repeated, trying to push his hand off her wrist.

And she could not.

She wondered whether Ares even realized he was holding her firmer than usual, if not putting a bit more force in his grip. Ares would never, and so far he had never. So what happened? Determined to get an answer for the warrior’s unusual demeanor, she pinched the back of his hand.

“Eh—what?” startled, the warrior stopped, tilting his head down to meet her eyes.

“Good. Do I have your attention now?” the dancer huffed. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t…” the warrior looked at her pensively. “I was just…”

“You want to take me out of this place. I deserve an explanation,” the dancer stated firmly. “Besides, if you drag me like that, then…”

What she said practically floored the warrior. He stopped in his tracks, observing the dancer, whom in turn looking rather awkward for saying that. The warrior growled. He had hurt her without realizing it? Yet he arrived there out of concern for her. “… Did it hurt?” he finally asked.

She gave a small nod.

Sentiments hurt, Javarro told him. It was a knife. And a knife wasn’t cute…

And his noble cause hurt her. Like a knife. Two-sided knife.

“Gods,” he muttered, releasing her at an instant. “By Hezul. Lene, I’m so sorry. It’s just…”

“Come on,” she took turn taking him, ushering him to a table. “What happened? Talk to me.”

“Runaway inmate. Serial killer without remorse,” he finally said it. “I probably should have told you. But you always smile each time I drop by—including today, so I thought…”

“You thought?” she placed her hands on her hips.

“I thought I want to keep it that way.”

She paused. He wanted to protect her smile?

“I almost thought you hated me,” she murmured after some time. “Because you looked…”

“Ruthless?” he whispered.

“… Cold,” she responded softly. “And usually, it is the prelude.”

Ares really wanted to punch himself now. He had defied Javarro again—through engaging him into a verbal fencing, believing he acted on the best interest in regards to everything that mattered. His job as a mercenary, the mission he received… and her safety. Yet he seemed to fail at the very point he wanted to deliver. And at a price—hurting her. Hurting her, to protect her—or so he thought.

… Truly was a knife indeed.

“Let me finish the vegetables first and I’ll check the market with you,” she exhaled.

“I suppose blending in the crowd will make a better… security measure,” he spoke. “So I can hunt him down while not completely leaving you defenseless like this. If the others were here, I wouldn’t…”

“You wouldn’t come for me?”

Ares paused. He opened his mouth to speak, but somehow he could not muster a word. And she was still there, waiting… and he wondered how formidable the dancer was. Of course, she lacked the martial prowess he possessed. He was taller, stronger—now, _much_ stronger for the latter part, for someone who was blessed with a specific Crusader’s holy blood like him… he had seen what she never, bathed in blood which she never; broke bones which she probably would never. But there was always this thing about her, strong enough to overwhelm him, forever formidable to even overpower him. Just by one look, just by one touch. Just by her mere presence alone.

… And he wished he knew why.

Sentiment was cute, but it was also a knife, as Javarro said. Double-edged, potentially hurting the one who harbored it and probably the other person who received it. And he was probably too proud to admit that he understood what the mercenary chief tried to tell him.

He probably should just end it right away. After all, nobody even paid him to make sure of her safety. If she did not want to get out of the threat-prone bar at this hour, he could have done so like he did an opponent, or a client even— _shut up and cooperate, or I’ll make you_.

But he knew he could not. And he did not want to.

“I…”

Yeah? He could have said so. There was no reason to tag along, right, knowing well that the bar-workers, who were her _friends_ in the beginning, definitely would take care of each other.

What did Javarro say?

… He could not remember.

Suddenly he couldn’t remember, because her face filled the room as much as it did his mind. He still had a hunch that Javarro would have walked out the very moment then, giving her the Black Knight trademark of taciturnity and curt reply he typically spared to other people.

 _Lene,_ he recalled him correcting Javarro then. Her name was in his mind. She wasn’t a random person.

“I would still come,” he nodded, firmly, as if he was renewing a vow. And he could have sworn the moment he said that her eyes lighted up as if Venus had risen as the evening star that it was ….

“Next time, talk to me,” she touched him gently. “Even if it is hard, you can always try.”

“… There is no next time, for manhandling you like that,” Ares folded his arms.

“Ares.”

“Alright. Next time, slap me…”

“… Ares.”

“… Or better, hit me where it hurts.”

“Ares, ssh,” she put her index finger on his lips, demanding his silence. “Forgiven. But talk next time.”

He nodded, letting out a soft, long sigh. She smiled at him, leaving him to the counter to make his drink. From the corner of his eyes he watched her swirling back and forth, taking the cider he usually ordered from one of the many big bottles the bar neatly arranged on its shelves. Humming softly, her dress billowed gracefully each time her light steps hopped against the floor.

“Thank you, rabbit.”

“That’s a start and that’s better,” she pinched his nose. “Alright, I’ll just finish chopping the vegetables, take some carrots for your horse and we’ll close this place. Sounds good?”

“Yes. I won’t dare demanding more,” he smiled faintly.

“Let’s find Adela and the others to tell them about this lurking danger and the reason why we close off,” she thought again. “I suppose… I can trust you with the money we earned for the day, right~?”

“That’s my job after all,” he started to relax after hearing her cheery words. If only she saw how tender the look on his face was then.

* * *

 

She strolled into the kitchen. Rolling her sleeves up, she dragged a pile of potatoes from under the counter, ready to peel, wash and cut for Adela when she got back later. Wiping her forehead with her sleeve, she chuckled softly, thinking how much it actually took just to prepare the ingredients so that they were ready to be cooked. And Adela did this all by herself everyday for the whole day? Wow.

She cooked. But clearly there was a difference between making food for herself or two—thinking of this, she felt rather cheeky—or cooking for an entire army. Regardless, she was glad that she was almost done then. All she needed to do would be filleting the meat, seasoning the cuts and then leaving them for a while to marinate, which should be perfect for the stove when everyone returned.

Lene set aside the carrots, cabbages, and paprika she had chopped. She placed some carrot chops into a wooden bowl, giggling because there was no single-bodied carrot left intact to spare for Ares’ mount. Perhaps they could return later and take some meat stripes for Eldie? Ah, right, she probably should visit him at the mercenary compound again, how was the cat faring?

Admittedly though, what Ares told her made her feel a bit uneasy. There was a lurking danger, terrorizing the town, a prison escapee who killed without remorse? That person could have been doing that again and again, especially since he had nothing to lose, or so the dancer thought. Because usually death was on demand when the Black Knight got hired. And when he took the job, death was certain.

“Is there something I can help with?”

She tilted her head at the door, finding Ares’ towering figure at the threshold waiting on her. Either Ares did not want to waste time or truly offered a help, he seemed to be more wary than usual, and that piqued her curiosity as well. “Is this serial killer… dangerous? I mean, _that_ dangerous?”

“… Javarro said he killed five children,” Ares responded after giving some thought. She shifted. And she did not bother to hide how disgusted she was at the news he revealed.

“What kind of a person who would do that? What did those children even do?”

“Exactly because they did not do anything,” Ares closed his eyes for a second, imagining a burning Leonster and his own rapid descend to poverty. A ravaging war, tearing families apart, leaving sons and daughters having to choose between a sword and a bread. “Children had always been a fine target…”

She paused. And he dragged a stool for her.

She settled down for a bit, inhaling deeply like she tried to keep her own nausea from overwhelming her. Just then she closed her eyes as well, imagining the hardship of years long gone, hardships she experienced for growing up in an orphanage. The days she spent teaching herself dancing, the days when she was finally old enough to venture around begging people to hire her. When she had to lash out because they did not give her what they promised, thinking they could get away robbing a child of the coins she deserved.

“… And ladies, as well?”

“And especially that,” Ares knew he could not lie even if he desperately wanted to. “Therefore…”

“Therefore we need to save them,” she smiled then. “… As well as everyone else.”

“Yes,” he bobbed his head. “… And Lene?”

She stopped, waiting for him to speak again.

“Thank you,” he courteously nodded at her. “I’ll finish my drink quickly as well.”

She simply smiled even kinder, watching him leaving the door connecting the dining area to the kitchen. The warrior appeared to be more at peace compared to prior. His steps were still soundless as they were, but from the way he carried his walk it was as if his back lost some of the burden it carried. So the lion cub was just ultimately _worried_ then? Why, thinking of this made her want to giggle a bit. Lene shook her head, sighing, feeling contended that Ares was back to the Ares she knew, and that she had understood what prompted the sudden change. Returning to the kitchen counter, she noticed something was missing.

The knife.

It was no longer there.

She did leave the counter for some minutes to talk to Ares, after all. Perhaps it was on the floor, considering she just took out some potatoes from the cabinet and made a mental note to do them next. Crouching, the dancer scanned the floor, but the knife was no longer to be found.

“Ares?” she called outside. Like lightning the warrior immediately rushed to her, with Mystletainn already naked and gleaming in his right hand. “… Oh. No, Ares, not that…”

“I see,” Ares sheathed the sword back. “Yes?”

“Did you see the knife I was using just now?” the dancer swayed her steps, lifting some pots and pans to locate the cooking utensil. “Or… sorry, did you take it?”

Ares shook his head. “I did not even see it when I talked to you.”

“That is strange,” the dancer contemplated. “Hnnn! I’ll look for it for a while then. This is stalling…”

“If not found, tell me because…” smirking, he gestured to Mystletainn, “I have a big knife.”

“No,” the dancer playfully threw a piece of carrot at him.

“Hey, it cuts.”

“No,” she yanked his mullet, earning his faint chuckles as he retreated to finish his drink. The dancer sighed. At least Ares was still, and would still be, Ares. She returned to the counter again, trying to remember where she put it last. That was strange. Where did a knife go, when under usage, in the kitchen… for _cooking_?

Lene frowned again when she darted her glance back to the counter. The meat she was working on—well, it was there, not missing like the knife. But it was…

Filleted.

The meat was cut and filleted, so neatly and well-done that the cuts were more than ready for marinating. She knew she did not do it. If she could mindlessly put the knife somewhere and forgot about it next, of course she would know that she did not even do such action, in regards to the meat. It was nice. It was neat. But something felt eerie. Something made her feel incredibly uneasy.

Was it Ares? The warrior had the knack of secretly helping people without being noticed when doing so. He would roll his sleeves for the people at the street in discreet, then went back to being the angry Black Knight with a death glare and a pond of angst in his chest.  But to do so Ares had to step into the kitchen. And he did not. Even if Ares would go as far as circling the bar to get to the backyard, with the open area heading to the kitchen, she knew he wouldn’t. He did not just show up at people’s back doors like that, and knowing well there was a convicted serial killer on the loose would only make him to be more mindful of the way he showed himself.

And Ares would never unnerve her that way.

She heard clinking sounds. Like metal being lightly knocked against something. This was weird, was the bar haunted? Did she only get to feel these all because she was alone now, and the bar which was crowded on daily basis gave an odd feeling when it was empty?

But everything was well even before everyone else left. Ares had retreated to the dining area.

She turned around mindlessly, wanting to ask the warrior more. Ares was not a creeper, but they poked at each other, messed with each other every now and then. And the warrior could be playfully vengeful when he felt like it. “Ares, did you…”

She stopped talking.

Before her stood a ragged man, smiling at her. The kitchen knife she had been looking for was in his hand, and by now it was clear that it had been him who made those clinking sounds. “Afternoon, Miss,” the man whispered like he was cooing her. “The meat looked so inviting. It reminded me of the last body I turned into an art piece, so I hope you don’t mind me relishing the memory.”

Lene could not believe everything she saw and heard then. She quickly recovered, turning away from him to warn Ares. How did he get in? How did he make his presence undetectable—especially under Ares’ watchful senses?

“You called for me?”

She breathed relief when he heard his distant voice. Perhaps he just finished drinking his cider clean then. “Yes! I—“

She did not succeed talking to him. The serial killer grabbed her from behind, pinning her right hand behind her back. When she was about to scream for Ares, his other hand flew, pressing tightly against her mouth. The kitchen knife glistened under her eyes, its tip was raised against her neck.

“Sssh. Don’t you know it’s impolite to turn your back at another person when they’re speaking to you?”

Lene tried to push his imprisoning arm off her with her free hand.

“That person was a young man,” the serial killer cooed. “And that’s what I like about young people. Beautiful elastic skin. Prime meat. Children’s? Even more. So exceptionally tender. Human tenderloin.”

“… Mmmph,” Lene sighed under the captivity of the serial killer’s hand, feeling like she could throw up anytime now that the serial killer gleefully recounted his crime to her like that.

“And the man just now, who is he?” the killer chuckled. “I sense strong killing aura from him. Maybe we are alike. If that is your companion, I suppose you’re used to be acquainted with people like me?”

Lene shook her head violently.

“No?” he whispered. “Really? What’s the difference, me and him? Just because the beast is handsome, doesn’t mean his fangs don’t reek blood.”

She stomped on him.

“Easy there, Miss,” the killer kept whispering. “I don’t _desire_ you. There is nothing glorious in that.”

Glorious?

“Let me ask you a few questions. Is that the Black Knight?”

“Mm-hmmm.”

“Sssh. There’s no need for words. Stomp once if he is. Twice if he is not.”

She stomped once.

“Ahah!” the killer cackled. “Why, I’m lucky. I’ve been letting them capture me again and again because I thought this city started to get boring. I imagine Bramsel is mewling scared now, but why, I heard he’s putting a bounty on my head. Now that _is_ thrilling!”

She started piecing the puzzle together now. Bramsel would be more than keen to save face after his business partner was robbed and the serial killer they jailed escaped. “Mmmph,” she thrashed around, signaling to her captor that she had something to say.

“Make it quick,” for a moment the killer took his hand off her mouth.

“… Ares is the sword Bramsel hired to have you brought to justice,” she looked at him, defiantly.

“Why, you’re smart, Miss,” the killer gleamed. He pressed the knife against her neck even more when she looked like she was still itching to say something. “Let’s meet him then, shall we?” he tugged on her, gentle enough as to not inflict pain on her, but still forceful enough to drag her with him. Lene stalled, trying to walk as slow as she could. Ares was still sitting at the counter, looking so contended after downing the rest of the drink she made him…

“… Ares,” she whispered, faintly, so faintly, just so the serial killer could hear—but not for the bearer of the name himself to catch. But she was mistaken because the Black Knight, ever alert that he was, quickly turned around.

She regretted it. She forgot that out of all the people in Darna, perhaps she was one of the few to ever call his name like that. And she forgot that practically with the bar being empty, she was the only one. And did the dancer feel remorse about it—to be the knife aiming for his life…

Ares rose. Taking himself off the chair he seated himself in, his eyes narrowed, traveling dangerously at the man who had his companion dancer under the mercy of a kitchen knife. A hostage situation. He never really thought this would happen, for usually he was his own person each time he rode to fight. And out there, under the unforgiving battle cries, merciless weapon tips, he only had himself against everyone and everything else in the world.

And yet.

“Why, Lene, didn’t know you’ve got a friend,” he approached, sounding disinterested.

“The Black Knight Ares, I presume?” the serial killer smirked.

“Yeah?” the Black Knight flashed his fangs back. “Is that all? You don’t need her for that.”

“Tall blonde with a mullet. Curious black sword they dubbed as the Demon Sword,” the serial killer cackled. “Why, how beautiful! How glorious! It’s been a while since I sliced a fine prey.”

“And what for again?” Ares kept stepping closer while the dancer looked in horror.

“This world gave birth to people like us very unkindly,” the serial killer hummed. “What would be the best revenge if not enjoying your time and exiting with all the glory you can reap?”

“Oh?”

“I suppose you know. You, out of all people.”

“I don’t,” the Black Knight merely shrugged. ”Because there is nothing glorious in what we do.”

The serial killer stopped, looking like he was taken aback. He expected people to beg and writhe under his touches. Of all the things he experienced when his weapons of choice feasted on their flesh—tears, pleading stares, dying breaths, rotten words containing a bouquet of cusses if not wishes to see the daybreak one more time—this Black Knight was anything but everything he predicted him to be. He had expected him to get angry, to probably feel insulted, challenged… everything but a line which buried his dream of glory the way he smothered his victims by snapping their arteries. Flat, deadpan mannerism the warrior used to convey his response; how easy everything was, coming from someone who also tasted flesh and drank blood.

“How dare you!”

“Hmmm?” the Black Knight simply put his hands in his pockets, smirking. “Again—is that all? My chief even said you were dangerous. Apparently just a man with a twisted outlook of the world wanting to savor glory in blood and needing a hostage to talk to me? How _boring_. How _average._ How _basic_.”

“Uh-oh, Ares,” his companion dancer whispered, could not believe her ears that Ares simply tore down everything the other man had latched himself to without even batting an eye.

“… Boring. Average. Basic, you said?”

“Yeah?” Ares chuckled ominously now. “Can I have the lady back now, or should I make you?”

“… Haha,” the killer muttered. “Haha. Ahahaha!! Oooh, boy. Beautiful, I might just fillet you too!” he pressed his knife against the mast of her neck, prompting Lene to bite her lips. And just then Ares glared murderously, watching a single blood slowly dripping out of the shallow wound he had carved.

“… Oi, craven cur.”

That was a roar before a feast.

“On your knees,” the killer waved his knife in a gleeful manner. “Or do you want me to sheath this one in her chest?” he chuckled, adding more pressure to keep the dancer in place.

“Don’t,” she mouthed to him.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got task for you as well,” the killer drew something from behind his leather clothing. “Tie him up, Miss. Be good or perish.”

A coil of rope. Lene balled her fists, but the man had opened them with force to shove it to her. She shook her head, but her defiant silence broke after a reflexive squeal escaped her lips when the man pointed the knife tip at her neck again.

“I know just the right veins to cut and maim,” he whispered sadistically. “Especially those of kids and ladies, as the skin tends to be more tender if not fairer enough for me to watch what goes where…”

“No!”

“… Lene?”

She stopped. Ares nodded at her, slowly crouching on the floor. “… No, Ares,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“It’s alright,” the Black Knight gestured to the rope. “Do it.”

“Well, well, isn’t this beautifully glorious and gloriously beautiful at the same time,” the killer cackled. “Come on, Miss. Stalling won’t prolong his lifespan, just so you know,” he gleefully pushed her forward, with the knife still ruthlessly pointed at her neck.

… Tying up Ares. Never once she’d dream of doing that now—and Ares, of all people. Suddenly the knife looked blinding under the sun, and she wondered how many minutes this would keep going, going, until she was awoken in her bed to laugh the nightmare off.

Lene inhaled deeply. “I’ll do it. Stop pushing me around.”

Her voice contained fire.

“Good girl!” the killer gleamed. “What a fine day. I get to dethrone the Black Knight and have my knife traced his bones and veins? If only you would have partaken in this brevity we call life, Black Knight, you probably won’t really regret meeting your end like this.”

Ares waited. Javarro’s words rang in his ears again. Was that all he supposed to do… he supposed to be? Enjoy while it lasted, tear down any emotional attachment you had because it was the only way to be invincible. And invincibility meant reigning until a contender came forward to take your throne. Just like a cycle, when seasons ended, when people grew old, when power was good only when it lasted…

“But I don’t want to hurt Ares.”

Ares startled.

The moment the killer unhanded her, she drove her elbow against his face. Taking advantage of his surprise, the dancer leaped to wrestle the knife off him. Lene panted. There were biting scratches over her palm, and from where he crouched, he could see a bit of blood oozing from a cut on her finger.

He rushed to her, feeling Mysltetainn at his waist. The dancer had the serial killer backed into a corner, her body arching, trembling, but she still tried to hold the knife she just took.

“Back off!” she yelled at him. “Back off, I said!”

“Back off?” the killer chuckled. “Why, Miss, kill me then!”

“Kill…” the dancer bit her lips.

“You’ve never killed anyone?” the man spoke again like humming a tune. “Come on! You’ve had me backed into a corner. What are you waiting for? Just jam it there, straight into my chest. To the left where the heart is. Blood will sprinkle like flood, and you can wait until I no longer breathe if the stab did not end me right away…”

“Stop talking!” she bellowed at him. “Surrender. Surrender, now!”

“Kill me, right here,” the killer cooed, slowly pushing her hands, which still anxiously clutched on the knife. “Straight here. Why, I’m at your mercy. Come here, Miss. What are you waiting for?”

“No… no, I can’t…!” Lene shouted again, her mind relishing her time training with Ares. All the drilling she did pertaining on how to swing a sword, striking it power, parrying it to defend; how to position herself under threat and buy her escape.

“Lene!” he rushed to her, clicking his tongue. _Curses,_ he thought in silence. It already took a lot out of her, to hold still under the tales of horror like that. And now the killer tried to make her spill blood? He would not have it. He would not _let_ it. He would not let life manipulate her into doing something she did not want—including forcing her to spill blood.

“Can’t? Too bad.”

“… Ah…” the dancer lost her voice. The killer grabbed the knife she half-heartedly pointed at him, overpowering her that he had her pinned to the ground. “Back off, Black Knight,” he darted a poisonous glance at Ares, who was a punch away from jumping at him.

Ares paused. And Lene mumbled an apology at his feet.

“On your knees. For real now,” the other man commanded. “And take that sword off your waist.”

* * *

 

“Are you hurt?”

She did not respond.

He felt her back against his, her ponytail brushing against his mane. He shifted his position so she had more room to stretch her legs if she wanted to. Instantly he regretted his action because he could feel her shuddering. Her shoulders pressed against his, and he wished he could do more to shield her.

He twitched, testing his bonds.

The killer had him tied up at the table, his wrists being crossed in front of him because the other man had said he did not like a competition. Because the other man was supposed to be the sole player in this little game he crafted in his wretched, wretched mind.

Ares grunted out of reflex when the other man’s boot hammered against his hands. He tried balling his fists, but those became half-hearted gestures due to the awkward position the other man had restrained him. Meanwhile the dancer was tied up behind him, her back brushing against his as her wrists were also pinned upwards to one of the table legs just like his were.

He could take a hit.

People had hit him before, their swords grazed against his. He had been wounded. Beaten too, at an early age. It was only that he got stronger and stronger, skilled and even more so as he grew up that before he knew it he had been the one who landed the last blows. After all, what was the glory of battles without surviving them with a scratch or two? He had been in and out of manors, castles, tents… often, that he understood there were various ways one could inflict on another’s body to torture them.

But she was not him.

“That’s a nice sound,” the killer gleamed.

And just then, the dancer tripped him.

Picking himself off the floor, the serial killer chuckled. “Do what you please, Miss. A sellsword of his reputation is rich, anyway—I’ll make him _pay_ for everything you take.”

She let out a soft, horrified squealing sound, and he wished he could tell her that everything would be okay. If anything, had he wasn’t tied up like a leashed dog he would have sincerely bowed at her, admiring her fortitude and perseverance to refuse being subjected by anyone, under any circumstances.

“Well then, Black Knight!” the killer returned his attention to the warrior, to which he thanked for.

And Ares gritted his teeth when the killer hammered his heel against his thigh. He wouldn’t make a sound. The soft gasp he just heard coming out of her lips was enough.

“You spoke like that to me,” the killer chuckled again, slowly tearing the warrior’s shirt apart, exposing his bare chest and the flesh of his abs. “Why, Black Knight? I’m disappointed. You and I are alike.”

“Normally I’d say yes,” Ares nailed the killer with his eyes. “But this time? Not even in your wet dreams.”

“Because I killed the kids?” the killer cackled. “Gods. Don’t you want to know what they did me back then? Oh, you don’t know, do you. When they gleefully drew a flower on your forehead… with a knife.”

Ares felt Lene shifted behind him. “Oi,” he barked a warning.

“And then they splashed water on me when the blood had not dried yet,” the killer went on. “And who knows what water it was? Could be mud water. Could be some drawn out of a toilet. Who knows? So you see, I’m simply walking nostalgia lane here. Street urchins who wouldn’t be looked for when they were missing. And kids were soft. So soft. Breaking their legs was akin to cook a turkey. Do you know that insides apparently changed color too as a human grows older? Probably from all the toxic we consumed like those boozes and the waste we produce. Don’t you know, Miss?”

Lene coughed. And Ares kicked the killer in the ribs, an action which earned him a stab.

“See, coarse, rough skin there. How long have you been fighting and training, Black Knight? All your life? How old are you again… hmmm?” Ares pursed his lips tightly when the tip of the knife was planted into his skin, deeper… and this time the killer had rallied it upwards to make a visible scratch. “My apologies. Did I hurt you? Oh, my. That’s what you asked the young lady before, hmmm?”

“Hrrh—“

“… Ares,” the dancer whispered again.

“It’s alright,” the warrior muttered, sweat drops started to crown his forehead.

“I got here wanting to sate my bloodlust. Sigh, everyone had left. Only the miss there cleaning alone. Why, I don’t think you’ve got nice things back there at the kitchen. I thought I’d only want to steal some food, because you know, prison food is not at all pretty. Especially considering it’s Bramsel’s. I’m sure you’d understand, Miss, if you know what they gave me there. I can tell you, though. We’ve got time.”

“Don’t you dare,” Ares hissed at him.

“Why, Black Knight?” with a cooing manner, the killer _clawed_ against the scar he had carved against the warrior’s abdomen. “Why can’t I? Why do you care? She couldn’t even touch me. Do you care?”

“Hegh—!” Ares let out a surprised, explosive exhale, panting heavily to withstand the pain. The dancer shifted behind him, tugging on her own bonds in a desperate attempt to reach out to him.

The killer chuckled again, throwing Mystletainn at his feet. “Mystletainn, the Demon Sword… it thirsts for the blood of men. Or so you’d typically say, I heard. Well, maybe it does. … Yours?”

“No!” the dancer yelled. Ares was going to be fed to… his own sword?

“Or hers?”

“… No,” this time the warrior cut in, his voice was gruff and crass like it had to be mined from the depth of hell.

“Yours then,” the killer walked to approach the warrior. “Quick question before we play, though, Black Knight. Why are you not interested? You must know how to make people miserable, so miserable that you’d only need to drain their blood dry easily. Yet you still let those who had no wish to fight you to leave the battlefield? … Why? In this short life, what do you after, if not glory… or beauty? Hmmm?”

“… Where is the glory there, you knave,” the Black Knight spoke back, in between his panting breaths and agony to withstand carved scars and stabbing wounds. “You killed children? Hiding in the shadow, approaching unassuming people in discreet, masquerading as a… what, a court jester, perhaps, since you seemed to think you’re funny,” he chuckled sarcastically. “And just now, what were you doing? Approaching a lady when she was alone, knowing well she did not have the capability to be your opponent. Terrorizing her by filleting a meat, and should I add—oh, yes, stealing your murder weapon.”

“… You…”

“What?” Ares took turn cackling. “And you had her at blade point to talk to me? Taunting her with your horror exploits, knowing well it would damage her—instead of me.”

“What do you mean?!”

“Let me make it easier for a braindead like you,” Ares whispered silkily, so silky with venom within. “You had to tip the universe to favor you to have me cornered like this—at your feet, in ropes, where you got to torture me as like while recounting your victories to us—oh, sorry, you had to restrain her there with me too. Why is that, o, ye mighty one, if you did not actually…”

“ACTUALLY WHAT?!”

“… Actually realized you couldn’t win a fair fight. Never, not in the slightest.”

“Shut up!”

Ares merely chuckled when the hilt of the knife bruised his cheek. “Is this your wildest dream? Pounding another man’s face when he’s restrained, knowing well that… wow, you don’t even want to fistfight me  fair and square.”

“You’ll regret what you said.”

“You asked, though,” the Black Knight chuckled. “Of course killing children is easy, you moron. And sure it’s convenient, overpowering defenseless, non-combatant women. Power and violence are easy when you apply them to those who can’t strike back. Am I right, or am I right?”

“… What?”

“Exactly. Glory you said,” the warrior laughed now. “… So much big talk for he who doesn’t even wield a sword, properly, neither does he point it properly at another swordsman. I meant what I said—you are a pathetic little man. How boring. How average. How basic. There is no glory nor beauty in what you do.”

The serial killer paused. But not before he let out a sky-tearing, terrifying growl.

“You are not deadly,” Ares went on. “For there is no difference between you or that one abusive kid with a problem who pulled butterfly wings and killed animals. Don’t kid yourself. You’re already a joke.”

“YOU…!” the killer was fuming mad now.

“… Ares,” Lene whispered, trying to reach out to him. She tugged on her bonds again, and for a moment her fingertips brushed against his…

“I’ll wipe that smug smile off your face,” the killer approached, slamming his knee against the warrior’s face.

“Oops,” Ares merely licked the blood dripping out of his nose. “Again—is that it, asshole? No wonder you lurk in the dark. You call this a blow?”

“Shut up. _YOU_ shut up!!” the killer punched him again, but the warrior treated him to the same sadistic, sadistic gleeful laughter like it had little effect on him. “I’ll tell you what, you insolent brat—I’ll gag you tight until you can’t feel your tongue anymore, and from there—“ he jammed the knife over the Black Knight’s shoulders, “… I’ll slice you _clean_ like I did that red meat.”

Lene coughed again, feeling utterly disgusted and nauseous by everything she heard. But she still held her head in a dignified manner. She was being terrorized—but the lion cub beside her was tortured.

“Then come here, duh,” Ares chuckled. “You had me in ropes and now you want to gag me as well? Truly _unconventional,_ aren’t you. Come here, come on. Let me witness your mediocrity up close.”

“… You…” the killer angrily advanced on the wounded and restrained warrior, with the confiscated Mystletainn in his other hand.

“Ares,” the dancer whispered to him again, sounding like she was on the verge of tears.

“I’ll tear your flesh apart,” the killer approached. “And may Bramsel cry blood.”

“Too bad. If you’re not this weird pathetic man, we could be friends because I agree,” Ares nodded in a comical manner he mustered. “What are you waiting for?”

The killer approached. One step. Two. Three.

And then he was close enough to maim the warrior with everything he got.

“Haha,” the Black Knight chuckled again. Just then he brought his head against his tormentor, striking him hard and swift straight to the forehead.

“… What…” the killer gasped.

Ares had a completely different look than prior. His eyes were sharp—murderously sharp as he lowered his shoulders to slam his head again, this time targeting the other man’s larynx. The killer gasped before choking violently, feeling oxygen being cut out of him, and Ares darted a hammered kick, jamming his boot against the other man’s upper shoulder.

That action prompted the killer to drop Mystletainn, which the warrior swiftly nailed to the floor with his stretched legs, dragging the sword to his direction as he bent his legs again. Before long the Demon Sword’s hilt was back in his hands—his tied hands, still, and…

“Hey, Lene?”

“W… what?” the dancer responded warily.

“Bow a little.”

“… Bow?”

“Yes. Now!”

“Alright!” jolted, the dancer did as she was told, and from her side she could see glistening light reflecting on the Demon Sword. It was as if the sword was _gleaming,_ shimmering at the thrill of blood.

Ares twisted the hilt of his sword. His grip was pretty awkward considering his predicament, but the simple sway managed to make Mystletainn rotating in half a circle, slashing through the rope which bound him. The moment his right hand was free, Ares cut the rope at his waist which forced Lene to be anchored to him. In one vicious diagonal stab he held up the sword, forcefully cutting the rope which held the dancer’s wrists. He could hear her gasping, and backtracking his position he managed to catch her in his arms before she tumbled.

“Ares!” she whispered, sounding so shocked and in disbelief. “Ares—oh, Ares…”

“It’s alright,” he held her still and gentle, as if reassuring her that he was indeed going to end this nightmare, ending their misery, sweeping away her worries all at once. “It’s alright. Are you hurt?”

Only then she could respond, weakly shaking her head. “But you…” she muttered, looking at all the slicing scars across his bare torso. “H-horrible, aren’t they…”

“It’s alright, rabbit,” he patted her back, again and again until she relaxed under his touch.

And then he got up, slowly approaching the serial killer who was still recovering from the hard strike he bestowed upon the man’s neck. “Why, hello there.”

The killer stopped.

“You spilled her blood,” Mystletainn casually pointed onward, lifting the other man’s chin. With its sharp side. A naked blade, with a furious wounded lion who wanted a prey. “And I don’t forget.”

“A woman poisoned you like that?!” the serial killer laughed sarcastically. “You, someone like you who could have hundreds if you want—getting weak and talking ideals because of—that? Her?”

“Weak?” the Black Knight cackled. Menacingly. Brutally menacingly… “… Where?”

“… You…”

“You forced her to kill you,” he playfully rolled Mystletainn that its naked, sharp tip rolled around, making hair strands fall. “And you think she was weak because she couldn’t. You know why she is still stronger than you’ll ever dream to be?” he lingered closer, his face merely inches away from the killer’s while his words contained fire. “… You subjected her in distress and she still managed to try making you surrender in peace. Listen, asshole—the reason why I wield this sword and you can only steal a knife…” he hissed, “… or the reason why I’m a warrior and you’re a mere killer…” he brought his face closer, “… is because I understand that the moment your opponent refused to kill you, you are already lost.” And just then Ares swung his sword. The motion was fast, much faster than the typical swings he would strike on a conventional, common sword fights. “… Not to mention you did not face them off fair and square.”

… Then he turned his back, kicking the kitchen knife with power until it disappeared somewhere else under a cleft in the wall.

“Get back here!! At least kill me if you’re going to talk big, brat!”

“She couldn’t and wouldn’t. Trust me I’m different,” the warrior snickered. “But rest a while there, don’t flail around like that.”

“What…”

And then the other man gasped, looking utterly horrified when suddenly three cuts brewed on his arm, like an exploding threat causing blood to ooze from the sharp, open cuts. But the Black Knight merely looked at him from his shoulders, unperturbed by the view before him or the writhing agony the serial killer mewled out of his trembling body now. “I tore your ligaments. And well, the vein in your triceps too. You will not be able to wield a sword—or a knife, should you stretch your arm to swing it.”

And Lene could only hold still. It wasn’t his prowess that nailed her legs to the floor—or the gruesome view before her. Something, something in the way Ares fought. Something that wasn’t just brute strength or techniques. Something…

… Her Black Knight still left a chance for a new life to blossom.

“… How… dare you. Even if Bramsel had me quartered, I wanted a glorious exit,” the serial killer muttered, reaching something from behind his ragged clothing. “… This won’t do…”

Ares sharply turned around. And the dancer cupped her mouth, horrified by the view before her.

Just then Ares rushed to her, caressing her in his embrace. Behind him, blood spilled and oozed like a broken canal which sprinkled flooding water, staining the outer part of his black cape, his boots—the floor and the wall his back faced.

“… He killed himself,” the dancer murmured, shuddering in his tight embrace.

“Yes,” replied the Black Knight, holding still onto her. “I didn’t know he concealed a bread knife there…”

“… Is he… dead?” she asked again.

“Should be.”

“And… behind you?”

He draped his cape around her as he took her to stand up. “… Blood. Rain of it.”

“… Oh…”

“Let’s get you out of here,” he spoke to her in a tender manner, ushering her out of the kitchen. He gently seated her at the dining area while he closed the kitchen door. “Are you alright?”

She was silent then.

“Drink?” it was his turn to watch for the labeled bottles behind the counter.

She shook her head.

“… The white chocolates. Does the bar still have them?” he watched the shelves again.

“Ares, I…”

“It’s alright,” he repeated sadly. “It’s alright.”

“… No. It… isn’t,” the dancer shook her head softly. “He was right. When I had the knife in my hand, I should have… because had I killed him then you wouldn’t…” she took a shy peek on his exposed torso, revealing his firm shoulders and strong abs—now injured, with dried blood stains here and there.

“No,” he patted her head. “Better that way. I have nothing but respect towards your unstained hands.”

“But if… such a thing was to happen again…” she fidgeted with her dress.

“Then I’ll make sure to keep it that way!” he nodded firmly. “Or better yet…”

“Better yet?” she repeated, looking at him.

“I’d take the retribution for you even before you could think of it,” he spared a faint smile. “Clear?”

“I don’t understand,” she responded.

“I mean you don’t have to feel guilty at all about this,” he continued. “You preserved and held still to everything you believed even under such predicament. It took a while for me to notice something felt odd when you said you lost the knife because…”

“Eh—because?”

“Because you didn’t want me to know?” he smirked this time. “Because you wanted to shield me?”

“… How,” she said, with voice so soft that she did not dare to look at him.

“You refused to cut the food with my sword,” and now he _smiled._ “I respect you, Lene. A lot.”

“Oh…”

“See, that’s something I should tell him too. Why would I want to look for a hundred women when there’s one like you here—“ he added mindlessly, so, so innocently, but only when she looked so stunned that he realized how surprising and quaint his words had been.

“Oooh, Ares~!”

“Eh,” he scratched his head. “I really am bad at talking.”

“Heheee, it’s alright~! It’s alright, just like you said!”

“Dare I ask why you smile like that?”

“Hnnn? You sure you can survive the answer~?”

“Good point. Probably not. I yield,” he sighed.

“Hehe, good cub, cute cub,” she ruffled his mane, giggling softly. “Oh—gods. What should we tell the others when they get back? Ummm—there are rope cuts… and worse, a dead body…”

“The kitchen needs cleaning?” he cocked an eyebrow in a humorous manner.

“A-and the girls probably would tease if…” her voice slowly died down like an extinguished fire.

“… The ropes?” he asked.

She yanked his mullet and nodded.

“Then we got entangled in a predicament,” he chuckled, so tender and gentle before pushing a plate containing white chocolate cubes in there at her direction. “Shall we then, rabbit?”


	24. Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, have a humorously fluff-ish one I did on purpose because today is Trollentine, ~~allegedly~~ hope you like it!

They approached him like an ant colony finding a sugar spill on the ground.

The night was deep and dark, and he stood still on top of his black horse. Pale Rider personified, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes alert. The air was pretty cold, perfect for anyone to drown in deep slumber. For the richer ones, he pictured a hearth burning with infinite supply of coal if not firewood.

For him and other people alike, the time was perfect for a hunt.

He rode in the morning to settle the job sent his way. A warlord had been recruiting mercenaries on an impending small-scale conflict against another warlord. The pay was more than handsome, even before he was told of the literal nominal when he barely woke up to read any letter that particular early morning. However, judging from Javarro’s glistening smile, he knew their group caught a big fish.

Yawning, his eyes were wide open when Javarro whispered something to him.

“Ride.”

And just like that, he nodded. It did not take long for him to finish his breakfast, bathe, and prepare his mount as well as supplies for the day. When he got a summary of the mission he was supposed to be doing, he steered his mount back saying he had forgotten something important from the stable.

Javarro and the rest of the mercenaries aside could only stand agape when he returned from the stable. A black kitten rounded itself like a shy _mimosa pudica,_ lying in the crook of his arm. Without hesitation he asked one of his comrades to hold the black kitten Eldie, and he performed one last check on his attire to make sure everything was in prime condition to ride… and kill.

Only then he put on his shoulder armor and breast plate. Receiving the kitten back from the hesitating comrade, the animal was safely tucked behind his overdress, its little furry body comfortably nuzzled against his cravat. “We’re riding, Eldie.”

“You’re taking the cat to a battlefield?” the comrade asked. “It’s not going to be a one-on-one fight.”

“No,” he replied, gently patting the animal’s head. “I’m taking it somewhere safe.”

His eyes lighted up the way the first ray of morning sun graced their compound.

 

“Sir Black Knight?”

He startled. The warlord who hired him had plastered a map against a makeshift wooden frame. He had been invited to the war council because the warlord planned to attack his rival’s camp that night. _Perfect for a hunt,_ he relayed then. Wolves howled at the moon during the night, and his group consisted of a bunch of them. He, on the other hand—didn’t care much. He was a pouncing lion; wherever there was a smell of blood, his talons would follow.

The whole day he had been advising them in the matter of warfare. He had helped them fortified their encampment, building trenches and even moats to anticipate an ambush. He had all the tents be soaked in the river after everyone woke up just so they would not be so vulnerable in case their opponents chose to deliver a hail of fire arrows on them. He had the encampment encircled with a long, unbroken line of salt to stop snakes and reptiles sneaking in.

And by the time everyone was hot on their toes jumping on their horses, he rolled a thick bandage over his torso, tightening the knot at his waist while he tried breathing in it.

He was blessed with strength growing up, which he then understood to be the gift of Crusader Hezul whose blood now ran in his veins. But being a bearer of a major Holy Blood apparently saw a higher survival rate, because by the time he woke up, the wounds carved by the serial killer only left stinging sensation instead of the painfully throbbing one when they first made.

… Made.

When he knocked on the door of his companion dancer’s apartment, she, with a short braid hanging from over her shoulder and puffy eyes out of the sleep he robbed, received him with her hands tucked in her bed gown’s pockets. Either a blessing or a curse that he had to leave his cat with her for the mission, she took them out to receive the kitten from him, and that moment he could see waning red rope marks biting around her wrists—now purple; the silent witness of her suffering as well as attempts to reach out to him.

He had meant to inspect them, but she quickly took the cat from him, enveloping it in her embrace. With that gesture and an unchanging cheerful smile she flashed at him, he knew the conversation was over before it could even start and there would not be much he could do besides yielding to her.

As always.

When she asked if his wounds were completely healed, he made a mental note to check a boutique or textile shop later when he rode back.

She waved her hand at him, pulling the sleeve of the gown as she did while Eldie lay tamely in the caress of her other arm. There was always a _Be careful!_ message she sent him out with, and before he could protest, she quickly shoved something into his hands.

She had told him it was a pack of grilled sausages he liked, cooked during the witching hour and quickly reheated when she watched him coming from her bedroom window. Apologizing for her puffy eyes and messy appearance—in her words, he took the wooden box, now making a mental note again that he might be interested in checking _three_ boutiques and textile shops later when he rode back.

It was an odd scenery—the Black Knight who usually couldn’t care less what he put on him now neatly dressed in full combat attire while the dancer known for her beauty and aesthetic pursuits had received the warrior with undone face, unkempt hair, and loose bed gown which she needed to mend a little bit.

She had mumbled a thing or two about him looking like a prince while she appeared like someone who barely escaped a farm chaos and nearly getting trampled by a crowd of goats, perhaps—and he found himself pursing his lips into a faint smile as he petted his cat for the last time of the day.

“No,” he said then.

She wondered why he kept looking outside, thinking she had appeared so unpleasant that it had become an unbearable view for him.

He said the bushes outside were lush and it was refreshing to see the greens in the morning.

She pointed out to him that the bushes were unkempt because of all the wild weeds and falling leaves.

“Exactly,” he chuckled, nodding at her again before disappearing to master his warhorse once again.

 

He dismounted, smelling on the dirt and ground before him.

The warlord and his troops were appalled, and he simply told them he knew they were close to the enemy encampment because the soil was fresh—if horses did not race over them, then people had passed the route or camped there.

The warlord suggested that they erected a rivaling encampment and to proceed striking when the first morning sun appeared, but he insisted they kept riding to strike right now, right away, in the middle of a wicked night witches might be hesitant to claim as their hour anymore.

“We are tired, though,” the warlord argued.

“So are they,” replied the Black Knight.

“They probably start erecting tents by now,” the warlord responded.

“Exactly why we need to push,” his hand traveled to the Demon Sword at his waist. He hated to equate the incident the other day when the serial killer surprised his companion dancer when she was preparing food, but even if he’d rather gut himself before saying it to her, he knew it was a smart move. “Have you ever been attacked while chopping food?”

The warlord gleamed.

And then he _glared._ “Save that disgusting smile. I did not say you _could_ reply.”

“Anything, Sir Black Knight,” the warlord chuckled. “Heard that, boys? We ride to victory!”

He wondered if he had eaten more sausages she packed him than what he planned, to the point of barely feeling hungry anymore. After all they served him a feast because his reputation and the blood smell coming out of Mystletainn made people recognized him easily. He had no idea why he suddenly _loved_ grilled sausages that much even though the warlord spared the finest wine and meat cuts for him and covered his own tent with comfortable blankets.

Just as he predicted, the battle went smoothly in their favor. Tired rivaling clan could only shriek in horror when their army pressed forward, charging like a hungry pack of wolves finding a cattle to slaughter. Swords were swung, javelins were thrown and arrows were hailed. He rode steadily, calmly, swinging Mystletainn left and right, feasting on human flesh back and forth. Desperate defenders fell around him like withering leaves of a changing season, and he watched as fire arrow devoured all the tents into ashes.

“Maybe you are the god of war himself,” the warlord steered his mount to approach him, big leather sacks containing precious gold coins in his hands. He simply nodded without saying anything, receiving the money and neatly tethered the sacks onto his horse.

“I’d like to present you with honor…”

“No need.”

“Don’t be so modest, Sir Black Knight,” a lieutenant of the warlord chimed in, dragging a chain. A group of people tumbled to follow, many tripped and fell; their eyes were glistened with tears.

Just then his eyes barked open; wide-awake that they were. “What?” he gruffly asked, approaching the chained people. Dismounting, the lieutenant ordered them to kneel, and he inspected them one by one. “What in blazes?” he commented, pulling a gag off one of the prisoners’ seized lips.

“She can’t stop screaming. I need to sleep,” the lieutenant shrugged.

“And what am I supposed to do with them again?” the Black Knight asked, utterly annoyed then.

“Whatever you want,” the warlord dismounted, patting his shoulder. “You can kill them when you’re done playing with them. If you know what I mean, Sir Black Knight.”

“And why kill them?” he sharply eyed the line of the prisoners again. Girls and women, all bundled with a rope, dragged by a chain. “They are not dangerous.”

“You like your mission complete, don’t you?”

“I do,” the Black Knight nodded. “But at this point they are not even combatants.”

“And what’s your suggestion?”

“You’re saying they’re spoils of war?” the Black Knight narrowed his eyes.

“Exactly,” the warlord smirked.

“And that they are all mine to use?”

“Right!”

“Then I’ll do this.”

Godlike speed tore the air as the warrior unsheathed his Demon Sword, tearing the iron chain with one powerful swift strike. When the warlord and his lieutenant were busy exchanging shocked glances at each other, the Black Knight simply moved along, slashing here and there to get rid of the ropes.

“Run,” he growled. “Do not look back. Do not ask questions.”

“Sir…”

“Do I make myself clear here?”

The woman he freed paused. But she quickly darted away, followed by the other prisoners who scattered around shrieking and squealing. Most took a flight to the opposite direction to reach for another town, and the lieutenant gasped. “Oi!”

“I did not say you can pursue,” the Black Knight held his sword against the other man’s chest. “But try.”

“… I don’t understand,” the warlord mumbled, looking so puzzled. “If you kill or enslave them then it will degrade their clan leader’s morale so much that we would have won his crown without lifting a finger.”

“Exactly,” the Black Knight was still glaring when he answered. “Let me make it easier for you. That one, I’ll do,” the Black Knight coldly pointed at a dead body at his feet. It was an opposing side’s warrior who had tried to cleave him with an axe, whose death he personally oversaw. “But those ladies—no.”

He hopped onto the horse. With the mission accomplished, and payment taken, he decided having another sausage piece while maintaining one-handed riding for a while wouldn’t hurt.

* * *

 

She inhaled to summon all the courage she needed.

It was already embarrassing that her companion warrior had to meet her in such state—where she was barely awaken, eyes red and her hair disheveled. She secretly wished he did not have to see her old night gown—it was still wearable and pretty modest, but the laces were torn and the threads were old.

The night prior he had informed her that the group received a request. He had asked whether she could take in Eldie while he was away, and she agreed in delight because she had been wanting to thank him for saving her, for shielding her as best as he could when the bar invasion happened.

He did not need to tell her.

The second time his piercing words flew like an arrow hail she started suspecting him that he did not just enjoy slaughtering his opponent with his tongue. The more he provoked the serial killer, the less the serial killer would be fixated on her that the latter would take his budding monstrosity on him instead.

And it was effective. The killer could ramble and ramble recounting his violent exploits, but words would subside as his tight embrace was the only thing which stayed in her mind throughout the entire night that it was enough to make her forget all the messy blood spill he also took on behalf of her.

When he ushered back to the dining area, needless to say she knew the back side of his attire was gruesomely covered in blood. He let the returning bar-workers chirp about him only wearing a thin undershirt because they found him alone with her.

But she knew that he had quickly washed himself and his clothes after cleaning all the mess. No bar-workers suspected anything when he rolled a straw mat saying it was trash he needed to dispose, but she knew he had a dead body needing to take back to Bramsel’s.

So she secretly grilled the sausages during the witching hour, spending the night to marinate them right after he told her of the impending departure. She knew he’d still wait even if she decided to kill traces of sleepiness due to only manage scoring a two-hour night sleep, but neither she nor he was in the mood to make Javarro or the client to have some silvery words because he was supposed to visit a dancer in the early morning before he had to ride a battlefield.

Her only regret was that she forgot the rope marks were still there, and even if faintly, the warrior’s sharp gaze would have caught them. And she was right. Her sanctuary was that knowing he’d be too courteous to take her hands just like that. And again, she was right.

She took the black kitten with her to the bed, taking the sleep she had foregone. As she wished for his safety in a silent prayer, the kitty softly purred against her chest. She knew he wanted him back safely, but that day her prayers were doubled, knowing well he trusted her that much to leave Eldie with her—and knowing the animal’s presence around her would help easing the terror she just faced.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, she knew she could not sit idly playing with Eldie the entire day even if she wanted it. She had made a decision, and joining a consortium of performing artists really felt reasonable to her. The association, with its proud branches reaching almost any major cities in Jugdral, saw all the artistic talents across the continent banded together, discussing and performing in a respected, academic ambience which provided a shield in time of distress.

Having Bramsel around and harboring a personal quest to trace her mother—topped with the looming crises around the continent—fueled her decision to apply. No matter the condition, scholars were revered and artists were more often than not left untouched. If she could earn one of those respected seats with the other artists, she pictured herself going in and out mansions with her troupe to talk about her mother. And the payment would be better. She could really hold her head high without having to cower before the likes of Bramsel. And perhaps she could invite the Black Knight Ares into one of those chamber music orchestra performances—honorable, prideful, befitting someone who carried himself like a prince that one particular morning.

She had a bitter smile as she approached the association’s headquarter, a beautiful house looking grand and smart with all the gates and decors. If Ares turned out to be a real prince, there would be a thinner chance for a street performer like her to be able to actually entertain him. Or so she thought, because based on her experiences entertaining Bramsel, had Ares turned out to share a royal bloodline then his door guards might have kicked her out of their gates even before she reached the parlor.

“Can I help you?”

She was met with a woman, softspoken yet bearing those analyzing eyes with a scholarly vibe emanating from her. “Hi!” suppressing a gulp, she smiled and wave cheerily. “I’m…”

“Good afternoon,” the woman cut her in, with the kind of softness only rich people and the sheltered could muster—the kind of _subduing_ softness which demanded the conversation partner to _behave._

“… Ah, right. Good afternoon,” the dancer, sounding as if she realized her mistake, quickly deferred her body language, making a demure low bow as her tone was tempered. “My name is Lene and I dance.”

“I see. And…?” the woman went on, still waiting.

“I—would like to join you,” Lene spoke again. “And I can’t wait for you and your colleague to watch me.”

“We are not hiring performers,” the woman replied, silkily with a needle hidden inside. “We are a bunch of artists ourselves.”

“I know,” the dancer responded. “I’d like to join the association and I’m willing to take an audition.”

The woman looked at her, appraising her from head to toe, and the dancer kept her head held high. She had come with one of the best dresses she had, her hair being done in a matronly bun while her face was nicely painted with powder and rouge. She never engrossed herself in questioning the value of her own beauty, as she was sure that self-love begot confidence and in turn, confidence begot a crowd. “Are you a member of any academy?”

That question took her off guard. “I’m self-taught and I’m a hard worker,” the dancer replied.

“Self-taught?” the woman looked at her again. “And where have you been dancing so far?”

“Count Bramsel’s,” she nodded. She hated having to mention Bramsel as a reference, but hey, a titled head was still a titled head. “I also entertain frequently in Darna…”

“And where?”

Suddenly the dancer realized what happened. It took seconds for her to get a hold of herself, with the woman smiled waiting on her answer. “… Bars. Taverns. There’s a bar at the main road of Darna that I…”

“I’m sorry. I’ve told you we aren’t hiring _performers_.”

“I… see,” Lene whispered.

“You look so young to me,” the woman shook her head in a sympathetic manner, shoving something into her palm. “Please buy yourself something nice.”

Lene stared. The woman had gifted her some gold coins in a bundle. That very moment there was an ember being lighted in her chest, and she crudely shoved the bundle back to her. “I’m not a beggar.”

The woman looked appalled. “Why, dear, sure. But…”

“I’m a dancer,” Lene replied under her breath. “I’m sorry for taking your time. I was told that this place is where talented people gather to create art.”

“Well,” the woman huffed, craning her neck like a flamingo on a throne. “Best wishes.”

The doors were closed. And the dancer found herself inhaling a couple of times—slightly hating herself because her temper got in the way. But she firmly believed pride was for everyone. She was also an artist, a content creator the way every peacock in that building was. As her crowds cheered and her light steps flew, she almost, almost forgot that while dancing might be for everyone—either to perform or consume, apparently art was already locked with a special kind of seal that only a select few could have.

She turned her back, suddenly feeling defeated. Voices from the inside halted her steps.

“Who was it?”

“Oh, you know. A desert rat…”

“Really? So young.”

“Exactly because she is. Why, did she think nobody would notice that the more she decorated her face and did her hair like that, the more obvious it was that she was trying too hard? Had the gall to chastise me even if I spared her the coins.”

“These days fashion makes boundaries blur. You have no idea if it’s a woman of good standing, or…”

Light chuckles were exchanged. The dancer bit her lips, understanding what the speakers implied. “As if coming here in my costume would make them respect me more than this,” she sighed. “Yet here I am, dressing well and getting accused of being a little harlot who… what, wants to play a lady?”

A carriage she fetched to take her back in town stopped. “Where to, Miss?”

She waited until the rider dismounted, solely to open the door for her. In a dignified manner, she entered, letting herself being served like she wanted to take what people hardly gave her. “Darna.”

The dignified manner bewitched the rider. “Very good, my lady.”

Inside, the dancer chuckled. It was bitter regardless, but she was the last one to laugh.

* * *

 

“Oh, look, he’s getting bigger,” the barkeep grinned.

“Right~? He must be spoiled,” she giggled, nuzzling the black kitty. The animal was greedily sucking the milk she poured into a small metal bowl, its small red tongue made a repeated motion creating small waves. “Eldie is blep-ing.”

“When will Sir Black Knight return?” the barkeep responded.

“Now?”

“Whoa!!”

“Hi, Ares~!” she smiled, beaming at him. The warrior paused where he was.

“… Who?”

“Oooh gods. It’s me, Lene!” huffing, she yanked his mullet. The bitterness emerged again, recalling the way the artist association looked down on her. And Ares out of people would do the same too? Feh. She had taken the cat to the bar to be fed, still fuming-annoyed because of what happened that day. When she showed up, the barmaid Maeve had praised her dress, mentioning a thing or two that even though how she dressed that day was unusual, she appeared confident if not bewitching.

“… Really?” the Black Knight Ares rested himself at one of the seats near the counter.

“Uh—Ares, that…” she gestured at his abdomen.

“My wounds?”

“Hnnn. Are they truly healed?” she nodded hesitantly.

Ares took off his cape, unbuttoning his own overdress to the bewildered, surprised stares of everyone else. “I bandaged it in the morning, but…” he rolled off the bandage to show her. “Yeah. Just scratches.”

“Oh—gods,” Lene muttered.

“Oooh, my,” the cheeky barmaid Maeve strolled in with her sly tone. “Careful, Sir Black Knight, or you might have killed a lady.”

“… What?”

“I’m so glad you survived, dear,” Maeve slid closer to the dancer.

And just then the dancer stomped, red-faced, her hands flying to the top of his head mercilessly ruffling his mane. “J-just what do you think you’re doing?! You—height bandit, straight-face demon—“

“Huh? … Oh,” Ares glanced downwards, realizing he practically just stripped before everyone else like that. “Did not realize. Got distracted.”

“Distracted?” the barmaid Maeve chirped again, and Lene wished she could commit a murder. “My, my, Lene. You’ve been in a foul mood since you came here. Perhaps you can use… some treat!”

“Treat?” the dancer handed the kitten back to the warrior. “Your precious companion. Don’t worry, he already relieved himself at the backyard.”

“Right! There’s a nice restaurant around, you know?” the barmaid chuckled. “A very honorable dining place, if you know what I mean. Get dressed and doll yourself nicely, love.”

“Wasting money,” Lene replied sullenly. “Now that Ares got Eldie back, I’m going home.”

“Why, it’s still so early!” Maeve chirped. “You really don’t want to check out the place? Heard it’s so regal and everything. You’re not dancing tonight, aren’t you?”

“If you like it so much, why don’t you go there?” the dancer remarked wryly.

“I’m a barmaid, Lene, if I leave during dinner rush, this place will be destroyed,” Maeve patiently replied the now-bad mood dancer. “Come on. Lighten up a bit. Besides, it’s nice to eat outside sometimes than laboring yourself in the kitchen all the time, right?”

“Well, that’s true…” the dancer fidgeted again.

“And that one,” the barmaid gently patted the dancer’s bun, “what a waste to let go just yet!”

Suddenly, Lene pursed her lips. “No, actually…”

Just then she ran away inside, ignoring everyone calling on her—out of curiosity while feeling worried at the same time. A guilt-ridden Maeve quickly raced her while a concerned Ares followed short. They did not find Lene anywhere—not even in the kitchen as the cook Adela unkindly accused Ares of desiring a stuffed potato—as she put it, “In the illegal way.” But when they contemplated whether Lene was so much in a bad mood that she might have holed herself in one of the kitchen cabinets, everyone could hear water splashing from a small cabin at the backyard where the bathroom was.

“Lene?” Maeve quickly approached, knocking on the door.

“No,” they got a reply from the inside. It was pretty baffling—the dancer was usually cheerful, but today she seemed to be burnt out. So, what happened? Could it be that she was tired holding on so much that her own emotions overwhelmed her?

“I think you may want to wait… errr, outside, Sir Black Knight,” the barmaid suggested.

“I suppose,” Ares obediently followed because the barkeep had called Maeve to deliver foods again.

Maeve sighed. “Don’t do anything weird and stupid inside, alright?”

“Hnnnn,” they could hear the dancer’s sad humming. Minutes passed by with Maeve being hot on her toes while Ares was thrown in between whether to check again or not. He did not feel like being some kind of a jerk to wait on a woman straight at her bathroom door, but at the same time what Maeve said was alarming. Weird and stupid? What if she was crying? What if…

“Lene, don’t do anything reckless!” without thinking, Ares rushed to the backyard again, yanking the bathroom door open. He stood there red-faced, again realizing the consequence of his action; waiting on a scream to cuss him out, of the possibility of her to slap him hot and harsh, or the possibility being hit by a wooden container on the face. Or... gods be damned, if she would just knee his crotch—but he knew he deserved it, if not all of the above.

Instead of the dancer, however, he saw the waiter Aldo who quickly pulled up his pants back, looking absolutely appalled—if not _scared to the bones and veins_ having a very concerned, very deadly-serious _Black Knight_ roughly yanking the door open like he was anticipating something dire.

“S-Sir Black Knight?!”

“… Oh, you,” Ares exhaled. Like a moment of realization, everything rushed back into his senses, and Aldo found himself struggling to breathe when the warrior’s trained hands seized him by the collar. “Where is she? What did you do? Are you sharing the bathroom with her? How low!”

“W-what—spare my life, I won’t even dream of kidnapping Lene! G-Gods.”

Like a comical sketch, the warrior toned down. “Oh. Good.”

“Do you seriously think I hide Lene somewhere here?!”

“Do you need your mouth when you relieve yourself?”

“… N-no, Sir Black Knight.”

“Then kindly shut up.”

“Yes, Sir.”

And just like that, everything got calmer again, with other bar-workers craning their necks looking absolutely floored upon witnessing how wild everything had turned out to be, spare Ares who stood still looking absolutely appalled, scratching his head awkwardly. “Perhaps she hates me so much for undressing like that?” he muttered. “I just want to show her these wounds are nothing.”

Nobody dared to even comment on that—not in the slightest. Until the cook tried. “She has to be here somewhere. Otherwise, where did she go? We would have seen her if she bolted out.”

“Right,” the warrior glanced around. “Well, that can’t be helped. I guess I’m leaving.”

The cook shrugged, secretly thanking the gods because hey, at least by holing herself in the kitchen to cook, she could pretend she didn’t hear anything, knowing well there were things only the dancer seemed to be well-versed about. And nobody in the bar was by no means an experienced lion-tamer.

Ares weaseled his footsteps. He could hear a soft cuss and a bumping sound, and he could not resist pursing his lips once again to form a gentle crescent moon. Smiling, he took a single sad piece of carrot from the counter, tapping it on the small doors of the kitchen cabinets where the bar kept their food supply. Placing his index finger over his lips, he silenced the cook with a glance.

Adela _stared._ But the Black Knight chuckled faintly, trying his luck on the second cabinet under the kitchen counter. Sitting cross-legged comfortably on the wooden floor, he slowly opened it.

The dancer gasped. It was so childish, yet so endearingly comical—she was crawling inside, smoothly tumbled only to land into his waiting arms. She grunted, understanding that he managed to figure where she hid. Of course, everyone stared again—Lene truly locked herself in a kitchen cabinet?

“I stole a carrot,” Ares commented simply.

“Oh, congratulations. What for?” the dancer stuck her tongue at him.

“For a rabbit.”

That instantly earned him the second mullet-yanking for the day.

“… Sorry for making you worried,” she murmured after some silence, her knees pressed against her chest in a sullen manner like she was ready to get sad and sulk.

“Is it because I carelessly undid my clothes?” he asked gently, still sitting on the floor like her.

“Not really. I mean—I know you’re just awkward like that, anyway…” her words trailed. “I’m ugly.”

“… My apologies, come again?”

“Yeah! I said what I said,” the dancer unleashed. “I know it’s surprising! See, I’ve never really gave it a real thought until today, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. You’re surprised as well!”

“Of course I will be when confronted by a lie. Won’t everyone else?”

“Y-you…”

“Hmmm?”

“… You don’t need to do that just to appease me,” she huffed, turning around. And then he noticed she had redone her appearance in the bathroom, redoing her bun to make the typical ponytail she wore, that this time her face was bare.

“Do I look like someone who coaxes and beseeches?” he shrugged, but his eyes sparked a jest.

“No way. You’re too proud for that,” she smiled wryly. “I’m going home. Enough feeling rejected.”

“… Want to check out the new place Maeve told you?”

“H-huh—what?” she looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Want to check out the new place Maeve told you—tonight?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like someone who makes a joke for a living?” he shrugged again, smirking this time.

“I do not want to be pitied,” her tone barked a warning.

“Do I look like…”

“Alright, Ares, alright,” she sighed. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re… obliged.”

“Then I want to take you out to this place you’re talking about.”

She paused. “You’re not serious.”

“Do I look like…” he wanted to start again, but stopped. “I am.”

“Interesting,” she mumbled. “If it’s because of the sausages, then no. If we keep repaying one another, it will be an infinite loop.”

“Did I ask for a payment for these wounds?”

“… Shit,” the dancer mumbled, to the tender chuckles of the lion cub. “I’m not—accepting free help!”

“Then I’d like to pay you back for taking care of Eldie,” he nodded. “So?”

“Wew. Loaded, huh?” she responded, half-joking, half-serious. If he was to assist a warlord alone like that, she imagined the group was swimming in gold coins by now.

“I had sleep. Someone here did not, out of cooking for me.”

She turned away shyly.

“Well?”

She yanked his mullet, but he caught her soft affirmative reply.

* * *

 

She fidgeted.

She did not know how many times she had done just that, but… she did.

Facing the mirror once again, she seated herself at her little vanity just right at the corner of her comfortable room, feeling rather awkward. She had picked another formal dress she kept for important occasions, one of her sewing labors she did back, back then when she could not commission for a dress from any fashion house. It was still in good condition because of how careful she was with it, not to mention of the rarity of it leaving her closet itself. And she definitely did not feel like wearing it to Bramsel’s. A second-quality man… heck, perhaps not even second—did not deserve a first-quality dress.

And just then she felt so… cheeky. She had taken it out after Ares brought her home that day. And she agreed to dine with him—dining somewhere nice that she never. And with him, which she never did either. She imagined Ares might have his own fair share of experiences being hailed and celebrated—after all he was the strongest blade the thickest wallet could afford.

Thinking of it, the dancer giggled a bit. Ares was pretty awkward in formal setting, yet at the same time he displayed that duality of rawness and nobility, from the way he carried himself. It was as if he was too crass for castle walls or that he’d willingly opt himself out from a formal banquet, yet at the same time the unsavory practices of warfare and the brutality surrounding it disgusted him.

And now Ares was to be the one who first suggested them trying a fine-dining?

Nevertheless, the dress was out. It was an elegant long gown, the color was that of between broken-white and soft light gray. There were golden accents of vegetal motifs embroidered over the chest area, with soft transparent-looking fabric creating a flowing impression like water current or a flying butterfly for the accents of the sleeves. The dress accentuated her figure because of the tailoring; open shoulders revealing bare neck to the upper shoulders gave out an elegant feeling while the waist was cupped at the sides to suit the wearer’s figure.

It would be fun, perhaps, to be in Ares’ arm in that dress—a contrast to his black cape and attire, as hers was white. But there was a graying undertone in the dress, and she smirked, suddenly feeling like the dress understood her too well that she wasn’t the dream girl to worship or imagined, as the Black Knight wasn’t solely about murder and spilt blood because his pants were still white despite the black thin lines over it.

Lene checked her pocket watch, powdering her face, giving a touch of faint pink blushes over her cheeks. Toning down the red rouge multiple times to get the sheer color she wanted, she pressed her lips, sighing. She felt contended. Compared to the previous look she had when she traveled to the artistry association’s headquarter, she felt like she needed to do it, or people wouldn’t take her seriously. But this time there would be only Ares, and this time she actually quite liked her appearance.

She let her hair loose; silky green strands billowed to frame her face as she began combing it. Feeling so tempted to do something differently this time, she braided the hair at her sides, weaving the two further to the back of her head before securing her art piece with her favorite pink ribbon.

Chuckling, she thought it might be overdone, but after what happened during the day, there was something in her which demanded her to prevail this time. That knowing well she would be blending with the honorables and rich of Darna, to silence them by her mere entry alone.

At the same time of course it was a bit sad, having to doll herself up to be acknowledged.

She took her mantle with her, rushing when she thought she could hear the sounds of hooves galloping. Ares was never late or forgetful once he set his mind on something, and opening her door to anticipate his arrival, the market’s herbs grannie waved at her.

“Oh, dear, look how beautiful you are! Special invitation or what?”

And just then she saw him.

Holding the rein tightly with his gloved hands, he dismounted, much to her surprise.

The Black Knight was no Black Knight that evening. Ares did not dress _intimidatingly_ in black as he typically did—the warrior had silk blouse on him, of red color while his breeches were dark brown. He had a coat with red, gold, and black accent, a scarf of red and black motif neatly rolled around his neck.

She did not realize she had been staring on him with her mouth open.

He did not realize he had dismounted without greeting her, because for some reason he felt his sharp eyes were too weak, too weary to keep looking at her.

“Oh, my,” the herbs grannie sighed in adoration.

“Ummm,” she started, wondering if Eldie stole her tongue when she handed the kitten back to Ares.

“Eh,” he replied in the same awkward manner, wondering why hundreds of sword swings and tons of  warfare manuals never prepared him for this kind of ambush.

“Ares,” she murmured, not sure of saying anything else. But his name just felt fitting…

“Lene,” he bowed. Since she called for his name, it was only normal that he called her back, right?  He was aware he wasn’t the best talker in the world. Hell, perhaps even _he_ would not want to engage himself in a chit-chat had he been born as someone else. Yet she stayed, ringing his ears with tickling conversations here and there, making him think, making him crack a joke, making him contemplate.

And he found himself rather clueless when she was speechless like that.

Action spoke better than words for him—for people like him. For warriors like him. And for her too, the dancer, the way she communicated her artistic pursuits to her audience, the way she conveyed her hopes and emotions to them.

So he simply stretched his arm to give her a hand. Why, somehow her hand felt shivering a little in his. But she wore a mantle, and they lived in a desert region. Navigating her to mount, his hands respectfully hoisted her to the horseback at ease. She found herself seated comfortably because again he had lain a piece of rag over his saddle, considering she often wore dresses when she wasn’t dancing.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He nodded. Helping her to fix her mantle, he smiled, climbing up and seized the rein.

She did not say much as they rode, and likewise somehow he just wanted to savor the silence between them. The moon was already hanging in the sky, and suddenly she wondered if she’d be able to see that one uniquely radiant star he had mentioned when they accidentally shared the same bath. Night breeze swirled around them and she gently fixed his scarf, smoothing his coat from behind his back. Her hand softly touched his arm and for a moment, she felt… so tranquil, so at peace that she could just lay her head on his back as her hands tightened around his waist.

“Comfortable?” he asked when he ordered the mount to take a turn.

“Very,” she whispered. “… You?”

“Likewise.”

She thought it was the night or the breeze, but she could have sworn his voice was equally tender.

He stopped his horse when they approached a building Maeve had mentioned. Helping her dismounting his eyes were fixated on hers, and he gasped a little bit when her voice startled him.

“… Ares?”

“Ah—yes?”

“Oh, nothing, but… um,” she chuckled, “you can put me down now.”

“… Oh. Right. Sorry,” he quickly retracted, bringing her down so that she safely landed on her feet.

“This is it then,” she smiled. “I guess I’ll have to take your arm like this…”

“My pleasure,” he nodded, sparing a faint smile at her as well. Suddenly he wondered what his parents might think if they saw him like this. Would they be happy? Would they be—proud? Would his father mercilessly tease him, considering he had tried to invoke the Lionheart’s image in the way he dressed himself—feeling so self-conscious that neither the gruesome black color nor a cape being too familiar with blood stains should have a chance to be with her in a serene, noble setting like this. And what would be better than a noble imagery, if not his revered noble father himself?

He secretly wished Eldigan the Lionheart would be proud of him—at least for wearing other colors.

Her eyes sparkled. Finesse and elegance waited her inside. She felt him twitching a bit, and she smiled, patting his hand. “Let’s take a rather secluded place to make you more comfortable?”

“How understanding,” he mustered a faint smile again. Why, life was funny. He was the one being of noble blood, with a heritage of a _Crusader_ bearing a major Holy Blood. Yet there she was, carrying herself with an air of dignity, like a princess—no, a queen—all the while still having the chance to pay attention to his well-being while not hiding how she appreciated his invitation at the same time.

They strolled in, meeting people’s eyes and stares for they never saw a more dazzling pair than the duo that day. His golden mane shone brilliantly under all the blinding candles and lanterns, while she simply nodded letting people to serve her.

“For two?” a waiter asked.

“Yes,” the dancer replied, smiling. “And we’d like a secluded place. Near the window, perhaps—the moon was nice. Acceptable, Ares?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled a little bit. “Sounds secure, if anything happened I could just jump out of it.”

“… Sorry?” the waiter mumbled.

“The table better have a nice distance from the others,” Ares added then, “for her ease of movement.”

“Oh, that will be great!” she beamed at him. “Thank you, Sir Lion.”

“No worries, Miss Rabbit.”

Confused as he was, the waiter did navigate the unlikely dining couple to get what they wanted. Reading the menu cards spread before them, the dancer chuckled, signaling for the warrior to hover closer. “I can make these supposedly sophisticated dishes on my own once I get to taste them.”

The warrior snorted. “I salute you.”

“You have to,” she playfully nudged him.

“As if I have a choice,” he feigned sighing, earning her delightful soft giggles.

“Let’s share this with everyone else,” her eyes glinted mischievously. “Through the foods I’ll copy.”

“No,” he glared somehow. “Don’t suggest it to Uncle Barkeep as a new menu.”

“Huh? But I want you to be able to eat them anytime you want as well!”

“Feeding me is fine. Feeding others like that probably isn’t so wise, rabbit.”

“Hnnn~? Why, Ares, you’re sulking like a cat~!”

“Cats don’t sulk.”

“See, then you have a problem if even cats don’t,” she stuck her tongue at him. “Oh, that…”

He stopped bantering with her when she nuzzled him. A group of eccentric people were dining near their table, and she immediately recognized one of them as the poisonous softspoken woman who looked down on her during the day. “Do I need to put them in my hit-list?” he smirked.

She spread the menu, covering both their faces to whisper to him. And he got the story; of a proud self-taught dancer who was rejected at the door even without given a chance to swing. “And that’s why,” she confessed, looking embarrassed. “Sorry for my foul mood today.”

“… Interesting,” Ares grinned. “I was offered fifty ladies at my disposal.”

“… What?” her eyes grew wide.

“Not now. Unsuitable tale for a fine place,” he chuckled faintly. “And I did something, of course.”

“Ummm…”

“I let them go,” he nodded in a gentle manner. “I made sure they escape alive and untouched.”

“… Your father will be so proud of you,” she whispered, feeling so touched that her eyes grew foggy.

“Your mother will be too, of you,” he replied in a firm tone. “Here,” he gestured to their table before moving to gesture at the posh group's table, “or there.”

“Hnnn, Ares…”

“Your food comes, rabbit,” he smirked. “Sure you’d do me a favor to eat well and uncover the recipe?”

“Haha! Of course~!” winking, she beamed at him. “Listen. Do not kill those snobs, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Why, brooding again…” she chuckled. They ate in silence, with her stealing glances at the moon outside, wondering which among many the star which captivated the warrior’s attention was, while he was busy juggling whether to look at her or to concentrate on the food on his plate.

She was just finished when Ares took the waiter to his side, whispering a thing or two, gesturing to the table of the snobs. The waiter nodded, even more profusely as he tipped.

“Ares, that’s an old man. Don’t conscript him into your murder plan.”

“Murder? Me? How come? I’m a prince,” he cocked an eyebrow, stretching his arms while playfully pointed on his own scarf.

“You clown,” she dug her nails into his ribs. “But you know what, you’ll probably make a fine one.”

“Fine murderer?”

“Fine prince, Ares, gods,” she yanked his mullet, and retracting in a second feeling so incredibly awkward since she did that under the formal and fine setting such as that one. But he simply laughed.

“Can’t a man be both?”

“Sure, sure, whatever. If you do both then I must be the queen of Agustria,” she rolled her eyes at him.

“… Queen of Agustria, huh?”

“Hnnn? Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“… Nothing. You tickled me,” he said.

“Suspicious.”

“Right, right, queen of Agustria,” he chuckled. “Maybe not a bad idea. So far no rabbit has ruled there.”

“Come again?” she smiled at him, so sweet, so tender, as her heel dug against his instep.

“Look who’s the murderer now,” he chuckled. She was about to reply when the art woman hovered closer, looking so incredibly confused to find them there.

“Excuse me. I was told that you are the gentleman who ordered the cake dessert for me.”

“I am.”

“… Do I know you?” she looked at him, and then her. Well, she thought the green-haired noblewoman looked familiar, but ah, she was an acquaintance of many nobles. Must be one of them then.

“I’m afraid not,” the warrior replied courteously.

“Really…” the woman looked at him again, smiling rather seductively this time. “Then we can start.”

“Oh, no need. I’ve heard of some of the chatter over there. A revered artist,” the warrior bowed, to the wary look of the dancer. Huh? Ares could talk like that? And…

“Ares,” she whispered, pinching his waist just so the lion cub didn’t do something out of bloodlust. She should have known he was rather vindictive when it concerned her well-being, but… surely he wouldn’t start a fight, right? After all, those might be annoying snobs, but they were just artists, not warriors!

“I’m flattered,” the woman replied suavely. “And you are?”

Ares smirked. “A mercenary,” he replied, with the softest, huskiest voice he could muster.

“… Pardon?”

“And with my companion self-taught dancer,” suddenly he took her hand in his, as if showing her off to people with pride. “If you excuse me, Ma’am. Need to return to Darna before it gets too dark.”

He ushered her outside in a gallant manner, while she was speechless beyond words. Her hand was still in his, though, and once they were outside, she shot him a warning look. “… Ares…”

“Yes?”

There clearly was a mischievous strike in those leonine eyes of his, but walking alongside him to retrieve the horse he tethered in a stable, her giggles were out of the cages, and he did not mind serenading them back with his light chuckles. “I guess you can be both!” she smiled. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he made a really formal bowing gesture as her eyes twinkled, as bright as the stars above.


	25. Depressed

For him, night time brought differences.

In the morning he would wake up, washing himself early before making a trip to the market. He did not even remember since when shopping for supplies had become a responsibility which fell on his shoulders, but he as days passed, the more he was grateful to be the one doing that.

He wouldn’t praise himself to be the best person to go to when money was in the picture, still. All he knew that Javarro managed most of the contracts, and he found himself hardly bat an eye when people said he made a lot or that he could always ask for more—either from the clients, or Javarro.

It wasn’t that he rejected money in entirety; after all it did feel good to be able to rely on himself like that. It felt great knowing that he wouldn’t be hungry, knowing he could go to the market and point at any bread he wanted without having to worry about anything.

One time Javarro joked that people would just give had he simply point out at whatever he desired at the market. Others laughed because there was truth in it—their group practically owned Darna now, considering the castle’s standing army being their partner at times, with Count Bramsel as the biggest patron who hired their service.

… Even if the matter of prowess was out of question, Javarro would tell him that girls would just be willing to throw themselves at his feet if he would just point and choose.

He could not care less.

Something he knew for sure was that day and night were as different as they could be—the morning would see a fresh start, and the shopping trips he made provided a feeling he did not really get at the compound. Perhaps it was because the trips gave him a chance to make a decision on his own, no matter how small—ranging from the meats he chose, ointments and herbs he bought, or even how much of this-and-that spices he thought the group would need with the food.

Of course meeting his companion dancer was a bonus—receiving her bright smile the first time in the morning; watching her glare and angrily yell at the vendors who tried to charge him higher; yielding to the fact that she could just drag his arm, taking him to venture aisles as she asked him what he planned to do with those meats—“Grilled, what else?” he said—or the cabbages he purchased—“Pickles, perhaps?” he would reply—or the tomatoes he bagged. For that last one, however, he smirked, telling her that there was a comrade who just hated tomatoes with a burning passion, and he couldn’t care less if that person suffered because he didn’t like knowing Eldie was shooed from the stable.

She would yank his mullet after hearing that vindictive confession, but at the same time she would giddily take him around, raining questions about foods and the solutions she thought he had to know. “Salt the meat,” one time she would say; “Javarro doesn’t even season?” another time she would frown; “You can do more with the cabbages than just making pickles out of them, you know?” or so she would state for another chance.

And of course, he did not know. Everything be fucked—how did he even know?

Regardless, it was liberating. To be able to smell other things besides blood, to be able to think of other things besides striking an opponent first or wait for an attack to parry and counter. And it was definitely refreshing, to be able to see other colors than typical crimson liquid his eyes and nose were used to.

The other day, she lightly slapped him with a pout because he asked if flowers grew in her hair.

* * *

 

Night time brought differences...

She convinced herself that there was _nothing_ wrong with her in particular, but some nights left bitter aftertaste in her mouth like there was a bile in her throat she needed to push down, because if she did not, either she would vomit right away or start spewing curses in a manner which would make brigands pale in comparison.

Either way, it wouldn’t be pretty.

Some people sought to watch her performance because her movements took away their pain. Her tickets were not costly, considering the places she danced with the bar at the main road being her main hub. But it was exactly what attracted people to her—diner-goers, travelers, passerby who decided to stroll in and decided to purchase tickets. Often times it got crowded that people stood up just so they could get a glimpse of the stage, and late-watchers would shower her with silver coins or banknotes by the time the music stopped. Early birds who purchased tickets or paid extra fee after the meal too, would still shower her with coins as tokens of their appreciation of her dances.

She heard what they said—the beautiful dancer, a flower blooming in adversity whose face captivated audience just like her movements did. There were times when she would laugh it off. There were times when she smirked because she liked what she heard. There were times, though, when she would take time longer to change at the backstage, feeling unsure of herself whether people came because of her face, or because they truly wanted to see her dances.

Some other nights she holed up at the backstage exactly because they were looking for her. She did not know for sure when exactly it was when she _understood_ ; the way their eyes lingered on her, the way she figured that it wasn’t her face or the way her legs and hands moved. When she was an orphan, some people kept telling her that it was a miracle a little child like her survived many things—she stood still when other kids began to get feverish out of malnutrition, she played and ran when other kids tired. When everyone ate a poisonous berry they found during playing hide and seek, she was the only person who only threw up once and went back to normal by dinner. Other kids, however, pointed out that she was ugly; she was ugly because of this curious birth mark faintly seen around her ankle.

As a child, the mark appeared so much bigger. But as she blossomed into adulthood it was no longer a concern—the mark was fainter than ever if anything, and being wise beyond her years one would have to hit where it truly, truly hurt to demolish her sense of self-worth.

As she grew into adulthood, some people at the orphanage began to whisper, and she found people’s way to look at her changed. Hating herself for her metamorphosis every night, she wished the throbbing pain in her chest would stop—but alas, it was like her chest grew fruits, and every night she was disturbed that they only got to be… shape-y. Fuller, bigger, as her hips followed suit.

Gone was the miracle girl who survived everything thrown at her—some old ladies started to call her, fourteen and shuddering at this brownish-crimson stain she contracted every month, which gave her stomach pain, which made her feel like fainting when she had to dance during one of those times of the month—a witch, a word she barely knew. She did not use any magic, for all she had with her was the meager money she gathered by performing at the streets. And of course, a sword too big, too heavy for her to carry.

When a man old enough to be her father had her backed in a corner for the first time, she realized that Darna was never something-enough for her. Never kind enough, but never cruel enough at the same time. Likewise, the sword was never too big or never too heavy—something she found out after hammering the hilt against him and leaving him slumping to the floor like a sack.

In the mornings, everything felt more normal. She mingled with people, she made small talks and friendships, dressing cutely and less elaborate if not more modest than her typical costumes considering what was demanded of her. It was interesting to her that those who mattered did not care, and those who cared did not matter.

Some people started talking about her at the market, wondering where she had the money to fill in her basket with purchases. Some made a gesture of eyebrow-quirking like one should stop discussing the obvious—the same crowd which, for a reason or another, never accepted when she kindly invited them to drown in her arts the way many, many diverse bar-goers already had.

When she asked if she could join their crowd, they threw her back out, leaving her alone thinking she ought to _like it._ After all, that was what they said—yearning dancer. Did not matter if it was actually of a mother that was lost; a mother probably got robbed from her.

Some people said the uncouth Silvia pushed Lord Sigurd of Chalphy’s tongue to the back of his throat by being so brazen in the midst of conflict. Some rumors said such wench had the gall to seduce a Silessian prince.

What she did not understand, however, why the stories of the so-called valorous traveling dancer’s effort of reinvigorating the army suddenly disappeared when they talked about her. Considering how fragrant her name was, how sharp her petals were, how firm her root was, it was interesting to her that it seemed to many people a young woman would rather be around men during the war without anything else to fight for or bargain—in the same breath which made it like the likes of her… the likes of _her,_ too, had nothing good to flaunt for they all harbingers of chaos.

Apparently.

It was not until the fateful night when Lene met the infamous Black Knight Ares that she understood nights did not always give her money and danger in the same pouch, and Death was surprisingly kind and respectful compared to people who frothed in their mouths talking about the sanctity of life.

Death was kind to her somehow. And it was because of Death that she learned how to properly wield the keepsake sword. Death did not laugh at her or make a fuss of her clothing choices—night and day, but Death would always be there, sharing a piece of his person—death—to those who tried to mark her body with their fingers.

Surprisingly to her, Death preserved.

Of course the whole thing confused her because her nights did not feel too heavy during the times when they were supposed to be. As nights slowly turned into mornings, her mornings had become something she probably did not recognize because of this new routine, meeting Death every now and then at some point at the market.

And Death was surprisingly lighter in the morning—rather cheerful and goofy.

Perhaps he wasn’t Death. Perhaps he was Life. And it frustrated her when names kept being thrown even if a lost toddler he picked up stopped crying the moment he held it close against his chest—names, names, and names, everything but his birth name.

* * *

 

He traced the street.

It was empty, or probably got emptied because people could see his shadow lurking around the alleys that they decided to purchase the first ticket to safety.

The night was cold, and he could hear someone screaming bloody murder when he crouched, moving a stray cat to the sides so a careless carriage driver would not commit a crime, colliding with it.

It was typical and he hardly batted an eye anymore. Did not matter that he actually smelled of fragrant wood combined with citrus and lavender because he just had a bath, or that that night he left his cape in his room with his shoulder armor and breastplate undone.

For him, it was just that. He could go back to playing prince the way he dressed in grandeur when he took her to a high-end restaurant, but people could smell the bloody footprints from miles away and he thought he would still reek blood regardless of what he doused himself with in the bath.

He wondered if it was the reason why he enjoyed a hot bath at night, if not for his tired muscles and joints. In a way, he felt like his spirit left him like dripping water, little by little as he instructed his sword to scale his opponents’ bodies to create a vicious pool of blood.

He wondered why he even accepted when she had conveniently dumped herbs and perfumes into his traveling satchel, however. And he wondered why he just smirked, saying if he was to smell good, then she would not be the only witch Darnaians would know.

He wondered why she had punched him when he, half-joking and not, told her that regardless of what was what, he was Death; not a witch, nor a wizard. He wondered why she exhaled heavily, like she was a victim of a landslide trying to crawl her way out.

He heard soft footsteps approaching from the other end of the alley. He wondered why it took some seconds longer to unsheathe Mystletainn, suddenly remembering the night when he unsheathed it so rapidly only to find a dancer trying to fish her dirty purse out of a mud pond; a dancer who seemed to know he was close to point out that _no,_ she wielded her sword oddly, she kept it oddly, and judging from the way she walked, if faced with a serious fighter the best option she could have was to flee.

Night breeze slapped his face as the corner of his eyes made the approaching figure, and he did not know whether he should be concerned or happy when he saw her coming from the other end of the alley.

She styled her hair in a ponytail as always, looking so unguarded that he could see her purse dangling at her belt, her sword being nowhere to be seen. As astonished as she was when meeting him, her face lighted up as her hand traveled to wave at him.

“… Why being so careless when you’re out at this hour?”

Her smile dropped just like her hand did and he immediately regretted his response.

“I’m sorry,” she said then, before turning away from him.

Just like that, just that moment, he received the apology he never asked and it was unsettling. He thought he should be the one apologizing, yet there she was, confident and sure as always, with him finding himself begging for a punishment instead.

“… Wait.”

“I’m busy, Ares,” she said in a flat tone, shaking her head.

The monotony in her voice… no, action as well, disturbed him. “Don’t sulk,” he said, running after her. He had her wrist caught and for a second the memory of their encounter at the bar flashed in his mind. Immediately releasing her,  he studied her face—those eyes weren’t so flat to him, like there was a canal ready to break if only he hit where she less fortified.

“I don’t,” she said. “What do you know about sulking? Are you even angry? Are you even… sad?”

He sighed. She waited. And she had to be answered. If anyone was to give the other a silent treatment, it would be her. He was too aware that even if he wanted to, he could not. She was way too formidable for him to defeat, and oddly enough at the same time he had no interest to triumph over her.

“I mean I’d rather you chew me out.”

She paused. And her smile blossomed again. It was bland, however, and again he wondered which wrong door he had knocked. “Not interested,” she shrugged in a simple manner.

“… Where to, Lene?” he quickly asked before she turned around again.

“Why, such a worrywart.”

“Probably. Where to?”

She stopped walking. Her back already faced him, and he still stood where he did. And this time she turned around. “Why, Ares?” she asked then. The bile was back in her throat, and she wondered why out of everything… including her own mental state which would rather have her lie in bed for hours doing nothing but questioning herself, questioning her self-worth, questioning her life choices, questioning her existence in particular—chose to actually fulfill his wish by chewing him out.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” he approached, toning down his voice. His formidable rabbit disliked feeling chaperoned. In a way, they were alike. Even as a kid barely ten of age, he hated it so much when Javarro brutally reminded him that just because he inherited a powerful sword, did not automatically mean he could harness it in a heartbeat.

He recalled neighboring kids who laughed at him—with some throwing rocks, when they demanded him to unsheathe Mystletainn because—of course he was lying when he said his dear noble father passed it down to him, right? And when he couldn’t because God knew an actual, _lethal_ weapon hundred years of age, carved with the finest real metals would be too heavy for any child to wield anyway, somehow for them it was a proof that he lied. Since he lied, he had to be stealing it. Since he stole it, he had to be one of those posh-wannabes thinking himself better than the rest, because of course to be actually poor you had to be in rags covered in dirt and probably scratches. The thing was, when he actually donned rags, covered in dirt and suffered scratches out of getting beaten up for trying to snatch a thrown bread, life did not work on his favor either, so Little Ares, age ten, was sad, confused, and dejected.

Right. So rich for a small kid, to experience things whose descriptor of a word was still even foreign for his tongue.

“Spell it,” she put her hands on her hips, chest tight with an arched back. A challenge, he thought, judging from her face, the way her eyes demanded to be a guest in his.

“Cut this out. You know it’s not necessary. I’m accompanying you,” he returned her gaze.

“Because I’m easily snatched off the street?” she twirled around, making him quirk an eyebrow. “Because I’m easily kidnapped, is that what you mean?” she folded her arms then, as if challenging him. “Like you know you can just walk without making a sound, grab my waist from behind, and by the time I try to struggle against you, it will be too late that you would have pinned my  arms behind me, is that it?”

He paused.

She did not.

“And when I realize I’m getting kidnapped it would be too late, huh? By then you’d probably have my wrists tied behind me with a rope. Oh, right, if you didn’t gag me first in case I screamed for help.”

“… Lene,” he walked closer, his tone sounding potent.

“Or, you know, the one waiting for me like that could be a shy fan who liked my dances,” she shook her head. “Or it could be one of those aunties again, flaying me fiber by fiber with their eyes and tongues as if I have no right to be in the same space everyone else occupies, you know, considering other women also fancy how the moon looks like during a clear night like this. Or needing to go out rather late because midnight hunger is universal. Like, sometimes you want to eat a lot because—because your body tells you to. Oh, right—what do you know, Ares… you’re a man.”

“Lene, would you please let me talk for a second?”

“If no?” she twirled again. “Yesterday night I was green out of food poisoning because somehow the milk had gone bad when I drank it. There was a girl, emptying her stomach to her heart’s content because she drank that milk more than I did. Humane, is it not? What do you think?”

“… Sure?”

“See, point proven,” she ticked his nose, and this time he wished she wouldn’t. “She got sick. I got sick. But of course, she wasn’t a dancer. So since I was standing with my back against the wall, then I…”

“… Who said that? Who called you names?”

“Why, Ares, you sound angry.”

“I don’t sound angry. I _am_ angry.”

“Why? I wasn’t.”

He shook his head again. Approaching her closer, he stopped her, planting his hands over her shoulders. “I’m the worse liar between us here, but it doesn’t make you a good one.”

She punched his shoulder.

He let her. “Does this ardent admirer even a common occurrence than the possibility of the other?”

“… No,” she mumbled weakly, punching him again.

“Right. Lead the way,” he patted her shoulder, waiting her to make a move.

“This isn’t your business.”

“Your safety is.”

“And why?” her hand moved to yank his mullet, but he caught it in time. “Because you’re a worrywart alpha? Because you secretly begrudged me for using a you-pronoun for a heinous scenario?”

“Because I happen to be around.”

She paused again.

“… You’d just…do that when you saw someone… not looking good at the street?”

“Perhaps?” he released her hand. “Let’s find out tonight, then?”

“By letting you accompany me?” she pouted.

“That will be most convenient!” he nodded, trying to suppress a smile.

“I see. So you’d just pick up anything you found on the street?”

“… Come again, Lene?”

“Like little Eldie?” she turned away, suddenly feeling odd that the hollow emptiness started to peel off, revealing sudden throbbing sadness. “Is that why you want to make sure I’m alright? Like the night when you found me trying to scrape my purse out of a mud pond—pathetically?”

He paused.

Again, she did not.

“Because if I got so many favors from rich patrons, I shouldn’t even be doing these things, should I?” her voice trembled. “Fixing and altering my dresses? Taking so many dance requests in the summer that my legs nearly gave up? If I told them to leave me alone, they’d say I faked it because I liked it?”

“… Who are these ‘they’?”

“Not important.”

“Important.”

“You sound angry…”

“I don’t.”

“Alright, you are.”

“I am.”

“And why?” she chuckled again. “That’s the case with Eldie, right? You pitied it?”

“… Done already?”

“Now you are angry. At me,” she hummed. “But perhaps for the better,” she cooed, swaying around him.  “Right, Ares. Come on, get angry at me. I mean, it’s nice to have something else for a change, you know? See, you asked if I was done. Must be annoying to you, right? After all I should just be seen… _enjoyed_ … and not heard?”

He pulled her in.

She gasped, but he merely patted her head.

“I think you’re intoxicated.”

His tone was gentle, though.

“And if not?” she whimpered this time, however. “Why did you ask me that—done already, you said… of course this only means you don’t want to hear me out? After all, I’m a street-dweller, aren’t I? Which makes me wonder, Ares—why? You’re a mercenary prince now. Yet there you are, just letting me by. Didn’t even ask—you want to know my sizes? Hnnn?”

“No, Lene.”

“You chuckled,” she pouted. “You think I’m a little girl? I tell you what, I’m not—“

“Did I say so?” he patted her head again. “And of course you’re not Eldie. First thing first, you’re Lene.”

“But you met Eldie at the street. You met me at the street. And…”

“Come here,” he gently ushered her to the side. “There. See what piles up there?”

“Trash?” she looked where he gestured. “Hnnn? Is that what you like, Ares~? Getting adventurous by doing that in—“

“Rabbit, that pile is at the street. I’m not taking it home. Are you?”

“No, no. Trash-trash. No-décor. No…” her words began to slur.

“You’ve got an answer. Because you’re a person—a human being,” he cracked a smile this time. “Do you want to go home now, or are you up for this late-night snack you talked about?”

“Kind. You are. But why?”

“Because I happen to be around,” he replied simply.

“You recycled your answer,” she mumbled.

“My apologies,” he chuckled then. “Because I happen to be around.”

“Cheater,” she yanked his mullet.

He let her again.

“Cheater,” she muttered again. “You’re supposed—to be... Death.  Death, personified.”

“I am. Now that it’s answered, snack, or home?”

“But you’re Ares.”

“Death can have a middle name,” he responded casually.

“Oooh really~ then what is Life’s? Hnnn? Smart. Not,” she slurred again.

“You have no idea?”

“No. You’re smart. I’m dumb. Orphaned. So tell.”

“It’s Lene.”

He paused after that, wondering if he had gone too far.

She also paused this time.

“How about I take you home and I’ll get you the late-night snack you want,” he offered, silently thanking everything he thought as holy because she seemed too drunk to comment on his comment.

“Cheater,” she mumbled again. “Cheater. That’s yours, though. Life. Your middle name…”

He paused again.

“Well,” clearing his throat, somehow he felt it was his turn to have that damn bile in his throat. “How are you still mindful of me even though you are…”

“… In the mood of committing mass murder?” she garbled before letting out a laugh.

“That can work too,” again, his lips curved. “I’ll walk you home.”

“Mmm.”

“Lean on me.”

“Hnnn.”

“It’s alright,” he sneaked an arm around her shoulders.

“What an odd pair we are, don’t you think?” she mumbled. “If those people see us, they’d think they get the gold they have been waiting for…”

“Probably. I don’t care. Do you, truly?” he chuckled.

“Probably,” she whispered. “Because I care about you. Hehehe~ I care, you know~?”

“And why, Lene, considering I’m not a silk bolt.”

“Cheater,” she breathed. “Cheater. Cheater, Ares, you little bandit.”

He cackled this time. “Well, we meet at the market often every morning.”

“Cheater,” she yanked his mullet. “But really, though.”

“I barely even don silk.”

“No, no,” her words hopped as her steps loosened. “Like, you know… people…”

“Ah. Honor problem,” he mustered a concerned tone on purpose.

“Right, right. Honor problem. How much does it cost~? You make more money than me.  You are a warrior. They said knights do that—so you know, right? How much, Ares? I probably wanna buy.”

“I’m no knight.”

“There, you go lying again. Cheater. Cheater…”

“Which one is more honorable—assuming the worst of women you barely even know, letting a young lady wandering the street unguarded under vulnerable condition or…”

“Or?”

“Shut up and do the honor instead of talking about it?” he cocks an eyebrow. “Like actually making sure you’re out of harm’s way? See—I’m no knight. I don’t waste my breath preaching honor.”

“But you do. Then you’re knight-er than a knight. Maybe you’re a prince?”

“How come a prince is better than a knight?” he asked, feeling tickled out of a sudden.

“No, no. Good princes are. Bad princes are just rich bandit…” she hummed. “Mmm. Stop.”

“Stop?”

“I—“

“Yes?”

“I will be disgusting. You’ll be disgusted of me. I want to do something disgusting.”

Ares fiddled with his belt. What did she mean by…

Clearing his throat, he shook his head; the gesture was firmer than ever, but his tone gentler. “I’m not doing that, rabbit. I’m sending you home not to help myself there, you know what I mean.”

“Hhh. No, ‘Res. No, I mean…” she broke away from him, suddenly running to reach for a small ditch at the side of an alley, like she was contemplating it.

He was thrown in between. Should he after her? Should he wait? He wanted to take her home out of ensuring her safety, but at the same time he was filled with dread wishing he wasn’t the person… no, the _man_ she wished to be away from.

Weighing in his choices, he finally settled with following—from a safe, respectful distance, though, because she still stopped by the ditch, crouching like she was contemplating it.

“Ares?”

“Yes, rabbit?”

“Still here. Why? Told ‘ya Imma be disgusting.”

“To make sure you don’t harm yourself.”

“Hnnn? Again, why d’ya care? Should you? Why?”

“If you tumble or fall, your dress will get dirty?”

“Just the dress, ‘eh? Hummm?”

“Not really, rabbit. I don’t think landing face-first against the street feels nice,” he answered patiently. If only someone was to interrogate him right now, right away, he wouldn’t deny his humor sense felt tickled by her naïve questions—in an endearing way.

“Aaa. Yesh. Bruise on face not nice,” she slumped, and he reflexively flew to her direction to catch her. “Nnnn. Lemme go. I’m disgusting—“

“I’ll let you go if that truly is what you want, but if you keep walking like this, you’ll get injured.”

“Nooo. I mean…”

She pushed him, and he let the force threw him backward.

He pondered if she just tried to tell him that _he_ too made her feel uncomfortable, but suddenly she crouched—not long, however, because before his eyes, she had knelt with her knees on the ground. Sounds of violent coughing spams could be heard from her direction, and just like that, there was a free-flow of… liquid and everything else free of its containment that was her intestines.

She coughed. She coughed and coughed, vomiting into the ditch. Slow but sure she began to sober up, feeling so utterly destroyed that she had to be like that, in public, and he was the sole witness of her descend to oblivion that night.

She did not know which one was worse, though—being intoxicated enough that her stomach churned until she threw up like that, or doing that under his alert eyes, above everything else.

She whimpered. And suddenly she wanted to sob. More so when she caught his figure coming closer, from the corner of her eyes  as cold sweat crowned her forehead.

“… Don’t…”

He tugged on her.

His hands reached for her body; one of them tucking her hair strands behind her ears, holding them in place so they didn’t get in the way as she answered Nature’s demand like that.

She coughed again, and this time his free hand began rubbing on her back; up and down, up and down… it felt nice. Attentive touches like that felt nice. And right when she braced herself to be shunned.

She let out her last cough, spitting into the ditch, tilting her head from him. Crouching, she drew her legs closer that her knees were pressed against her chest.

He was there, waiting…

“… Don’t look at me,” she mumbled, her tone was so coarse like she was close to break down. “… Go, Ares. After all, it’s only normal if you do. I won’t—blame you. S-so…”

She saw something coming at her direction. Lifting her head, she found his hand under her nose, this time with a blue handkerchief in hand.

“Take it.”

She tilted her head, facing him. “… Still… here?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged in a humorous manner.

“… Why?”

“Because that handkerchief is mine?” he smiled at her. “Or do you mean the color?”

“I mean—no, why?” she whispered.

“Because you’ll need it,” he replied in a simple manner.

“It’ll get dirty,” she reasoned.

“I didn’t buy it to play magic tricks on a stage, Lene,” his tone was firm. “Take it.”

Doubtfully, she stretched an arm to take it, and he pressed the handkerchief onto her hand, gently clasping her fingers shut. “… Why?” she whispered, her voice croaking as tears started piling up in her eyes. “I—told you, I’m disgusting. Isn’t this? Aren’t you disgusted?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Exactly! And—“

“And it’s common,” he shrugged again. “You said it yourself, rabbit—everyone got food poisoning. Well, sometimes everyone throws up when they don’t feel well.”

“… H-hnnn,” she whimpered, wiping her lips and face with his handkerchief. “I’ll return it clean.”

“Sssh now. That one’s later.”

“Hnnn. Ares…” she could only spell his name, again and again as she began to stand up. And he would still be there. Waiting, waiting from a respectful distance, with an arm ready to reach out in case she needed a helping hand.

“Can you walk?”

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

“I’ll carry you if you can’t.”

“Until my house?”

“Yeah?”

“… Strong, aren’t you?”

“Then we’ll put that good strength for a good use,” he grinned. “What position would work best for your comfort?”

“What a question, Sir Ares,” she pinched his nose.

“A client’s satisfaction comes first, Miss.”

She chuckled, letting him carry her that way. Some people bulged their eyes when finding them like that, but that night the lion cub did not even glare—he simply traced the street again in a calm manner, his footsteps did not make any sound as he kept her steady in his embrace.

“Fun night?” one of them whistled at him.

He paused, keeping his mouth shut and pursed his lips tightly.

She did not.

When the insolent commenter’s face was close, she spat in his face, mumbling how she was unwell and beseeched his utmost apology for the sudden reaction—in a very demure manner, like she could pass out at any given second like the dainty little thing she was.

The Black Knight kept walking as the other person was too stunned to muster any reaction, but he smirked  upon catching her soft giggle when nobody was around.

“Disgusting,” she sighed then.

“Him?”

“Me too, though.”

“Formidable, I’d say,” Ares let his smile blossom this time.

“Still disgusting,” she pinched his nose again.

“Can’t you be both?” he chuckled. “Flexibility gives comfort, you know?”

She yanked his mullet, and his chuckles exploded into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... can't believe it... a quarter of 100 done... sobs. Thank you for reading and still reading, lol.  
> Things are expected to change after we reach half of the challenge~
> 
> Above all I wanted to describe Lene's frustration to feel like she couldn't be more in anything she wanted to be, so I played with words trying to draw her thoughts growing up. Tried to showcase a Lene that is open with her emotion/temper while Ares on the contrary is... placid. Hope it works. Somehow -cue nervous laughter-


	26. Adoration

That was quite a merry night.

It wasn’t only that the spring had come to grace Darna again, turning those cold nights warmer. Spring saw increasing activities among Darnaians, and with other places slowly came back to life, supplies and trades resumed, allowing the bar to restock especially after the barkeep got the license renewed.

Before the bar could resume its routine stocking, however, the barkeep decided to have the dining area cleared because as the world as a whole came back to life, so did the merry crowd who wanted some mead and wine. They flooded into the bar like ants smelling sugar from a distance, queuing at the counter and quickly rushed to occupy chairs when they heard the drum rolls.

People’s eyes slowly lighted up as the curtain was being lifted, and as always they found the charming dancer already taking up the spot light, occupying the center of the stage while musicians fenced it at her sides. “Good evening~!” she winked at the audience. “It’s Lene, at your service as always.”

She just did that, and the crowd already rained generous claps on her. Murmurs could be heard, including small children chirping because it was the first time for them to ever see a live dance up-close. Folk music started to play and the famed dancer gave a short intro that she would be starting the month with Darnaian folk dances, aiming to refresh people of the good old days where family gathered by the table, drinking ale and eating bread with grandmas held on the babies while mothers took a break.

The crowd got a late visitor, however.

At first nobody even realized that someone was late to the party—those who frequented the bar long enough by now should be able to tell when the dances would be there—usually around four to five times a week because the dancer would need to tend to her feet.  And those familiar enough with the bar should have no problem telling when the performance would start—habitually around dinner time until around ten or so, marked with the bar’s last-time patrons’ entries.

People already anticipated the show to start as musicians began to make sound-testing—violin and mandolin were stringed, harp was plucked, and the flutist blew a tune to adjust with the drum. It was, however, until they heard yelling outside.

“Don’t wanna get bruised eh, pretty boy? You forgot the toll!”

“Find a new hobby.”

The voice answering to the yelling was flat and taciturn, akin to someone who was deathly bored even by the first breath the moment the threat came out. By the time the people who seated themselves near the door waited anxiously, however, the wooden door opened, revealing a warrior clad in almost-everything black who conveniently stepped into the bar.

His arrival practically drew breath from the crowd, while the warrior himself glanced back innocently.

“Oh, it’s crowded tonight…”

“Come here, Sir Black Knight! That chair isn’t taken,” the barkeep spoke in a rather understanding tone, gesturing to a single, lone chair by the counter.

The warrior did not say anything.

He still stood by the threshold, looking pensive because he folded his arms as if he was thinking hard. People were still waiting in anticipation and anxiety, but the dancer who saw everything from the stage shook her head softly with a sad faint smile on her face.

“Fight or flight situation with the lion again?” one of the musicians caught her attention.

“No,” she muttered. “He’s just confused there.”

“Confused?”

They followed her eyes, still frowning to the bones. The fearsome mercenary was still pausing like he really tried to fish the thoughts he could not grasp, if not attempting to recapture the dictions which escaped his mind. Sound of someone bellowing from outside could be heard roaring menacingly, and like a bear rising from hibernation suddenly his eyes lighted up; corresponding to the knuckles he balled.

“Ah, right. Be careful exiting this place because…”

“Eyyy, pretty boy!!”

The warrior merely glanced aside. Sighing, he closed the door behind him—probably a little bit too hard that the advancing ruffian crashed hard against it. Clicking his tongue seeing the other man sprawling against the door with bluing forehead, he shook his head, making a soft _tch, tch_ gesture as he returned his attention to the crowd. “Yeah, because of that one.”

People murmured and chattered. Some looked at him in awe, some in fear. Typical sight for him to behold, and he anticipated either regardless of the ruffian’s presence outside. It was as if time temporarily stopped each time he made his arrival; for bar-goers would trace his existence like they contemplated whether he would cause blood rain or leave a dead body as a souvenir on the way out.

“Wew, you are strong,” from the stage she could faintly hear one of the waiters speaking to him.

And just like that the previous intense atmosphere slowly melted the way spring itself washed the chilly air off Darna’s cold nights. The crowd turned merry again, praising how he managed to neutralize the threat without even batting an eye. Just a door-slam which did not even seem to require a muscle work was enough to pacify a bandit?

He cleared his throat. Awkwardly responding all the praises he received, he could see that even those who feared him begrudgingly commended him. The crowd only got to be tamer when he mastered the room with his typical taciturn demeanor, asking the barkeep for a simple cup of mead.

“Your throne is vacant now,” the barmaid nudged him, referring to the typical table he mostly seated himself in, strategically facing the stage making it one of the best spots for anyone wanting to comfortably watch the dances.

He tilted his head again.

The charming dancer and her musician entourage resumed their stage act, repeating the menu they offered for the anticipating audience for the night. It was a folk dance, as his ears deciphered her cheery voice from there—a folk dance about the first day of spring, conveying warmth and happiness. As the music began to play, the dancer started swaying around the stage; her lively voice colored the bar again, asking the audience to imagine a heart-warming scenery where families gathered at the table, marveling at simple but filling homemade meals; of farmers having a wishful thinking of scoring a bountiful harvest considering Darna’s limited terrain capability to grow crops.

“And then as mothers hold their children in their arms, slow but sure everything comes to life again. Branches start to be full again, and fresh green leaves soon will refresh our minds…”

For the unsuspecting folks, she was simply turning around.

For the warrior, however, he noticed change in… paces.

He was used to observing people move—the way his eyes would sharply analyze an opponent, being several steps ahead that he could predict where their swords would swing if not how. Intent often sparked in movements, no matter how discreet—and she, being a no-warrior or a simple swordsman in the making, was no exception for him.

“Fan of the dancer as well?” one of the waiters blurted mindlessly while the barkeep’s eyes barked a warning. It was even a rarer instance—having the Black Knight to answer supposed private questions about himself, and he already didn’t strike them as a chatty person who was willing to humor them with his personal… exploits.

“... She is sad,” the warrior stated, surprising the people he had been having conversations with.

“Sad?” the waiter and the barkeep now followed his lingering eyes, but the dancer already turned around again, winking at the audience especially now that the tune started to get merrier.

“And with that, we start~!”

Just like that, she began to motion her scarf, moving her body as the drum being pounded.

“I don’t get it,” the barkeep frowned. “That doesn’t look like a sad girl to me.”

The warrior merely pursed his lips. “The bastard outside didn’t think I was strong either.”

“Huh?”

“Ah, nothing…” he pushed his glass. “Refill my mead?”

“Not going to move there, Sir Black Knight?” the waiter gestured at the empty table again, quickly becoming disappointed when a couple who just arrived took it. “See, you’re late.”

The warrior simply shook his head in a deadpan manner. “No. There are children around there.”

* * *

 

After the night crowd dispersed everything slowly came back to normal, leaving tables and chairs needing to be rearranged and plates to be cleared. The dancer hopped off the stage, wiping her forehead gleefully as the musicians dumped a pouch on her hand. “Your spoils of war.”

“This one puts up quite a weight,” she smirked.

“They loved you, alright,” the harp player chuckled. “Perhaps everything is better this spring compared to the last one? Either way, more coins for us.”

“I’m going to change,” she announced with starry eyes. “Gotta keep this safe too.”

“I can hold that for you.”

 The familiar flat tone startled them again. The warrior, however, simply waited for an answer after delivering his offer, while the dancer hummed as she nodded. “Then I’ll be trusting you,” she chuckled, gently shoving the pouch into his hand. “Handle with care, alright~?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Ares~!” she waved at him before disappearing to the backstage. Minutes passed and the infamous warrior held his position like a knight on a vigil, not leaving his post until she reappeared from the backstage, now clad in a simpler dress with a cloth bag slung over her shoulder.

“As you left it,” he said, handing the pouch back to her.

She smiled and took the pouch from him, catching the barkeep’s attention.

“Well, well, Lene, don’t you just know the right strong hand to ask!” he laughed merrily as the entire bar crew began to busy themselves cleaning. “Quite a blast today, folks.”

“Haha, no, Uncle Barkeep!” she chuckled again, wiping her forehead while helping to lift some chairs so the barmaid could sweep the floor. “It is because Ares is kind.”

Her answer earned a silence from the crew which she was blissfully unaware of. The dancer hummed, fixing her cloth bag as she put more power to lift two chairs all at once so the barmaid could sweep the table they were working on. The musicians were storing their equipment back in the carriage, with two of them rushing out to help cleaning the counter while the rest waited inside the carriage as to not leave their properties unattended.

“Then I…” the warrior muttered again, feeling awkward because he was the only idle person among the busy people in the room. The dancer was the only one who caught that, however, for she stopped doing the chores to casually sway back at him.

“There’s something you can do, definitely,” she winked at him. “Sitting down!”

The crew stopped, couldn’t believe their eyes when the dancer just pressed the notorious warrior on his shoulders, gesturing him to sit by the counter while the dining area was being cleaned. And like the rest of the busy folks that late night, the Black Knight Ares gaped despite yielding to what the predicament the dancer Lene just put him into, scratching his nose as he stared back at the others. When he was about to say something in return, however, someone strolled in.

“Excuse me…”

That face was pretty unfamiliar, prompting the warrior to quickly rise from his seat as he reflexively clutched on the curious black blade reigning on his belt.

“I’m sorry, we are closed,” the barkeep said. “You really are late. Had you been here around ten minutes ago, we might still be able to take your orders.”

“Oh—rest assured, I’m not here to drink!” the strange guest scratched his head, laughing sheepishly like he just realized he mismanaged his time. “My work at the field took longer than I expected, but if I waited for another day then my crops might have gone bad. Devaluing the harvest, you know?”

“You are a… farmer?” the dancer peeked in.

“Right. And I’m here for…” the guest’s eyes lighted up upon seeing her, like he was trying to frame entire appearance in his mind. “Oooh, praise the gods!! Can it be that you are… Lene? The dancer Lene?”

“Uh—I am?” the dancer replied, trying to flush down her chores in her head now to make room to remember everything she did for the day. Did they meet somewhere? Perhaps at the market in the morning? But judging from the way this farmer spoke, it seemed that he only got the chance to be in town so late because his field kept him preoccupied.

“Can I have your autograph… p-perhaps on my handkerchief…” the farmer replied nervously, handing the folded fabric in a star-struck manner. “H-haha, maybe a little dirty because I was in the field for the whole day, but…”

“Oh, it’s alright~!” the dancer replied. “Can you lend me a quill then, Uncle Barkeep?”

“Oooh, I’m so grateful to meet here you, Miss Dancer. You’re quite famous, do you know that? I’ve been wanting to see the dances again but—no, exactly, yes! A-ahaha, s-somehow meeting you made me lose my tongue. Is this what people felt when they finally met someone important? M-must be. But the truth is, Miss Lene…”

Everyone gasped when they saw reflected light flashing under the lanterns.

The Black Knight had completely risen, and was now glaring at their guest—his eyes unceremoniously scanned the farmer as if by the time the clock ticked, second after second he tried to peel into the unexpected guest’s clothing to find a concealed weapon. “… State your business.”

“Ares,” the dancer pinched his waist, by now becoming a habit each time something successfully triggered the Lion in the lion.

“Back then you said this could happen—ardent fans and stranger-danger,” the warrior’s eyes were still glued on the farmer. “That sounds like a ruse. Really, coming here at this hour—knowing you will be this place’s last-minute customer since people are leaving? Clever. What do you want with her?”

“I-I’m unarmed, I swear! Wew, Mister, you are one scary fellow.”

“As if it’s a secret,” the barkeep sighed. “But really, farmer—what brought you here?”

“I-I’ve come here for the famous dancer, yes—waaah!” the farmer gulped when the Black Knight pushed his naked blade tip even further. “I told you, I’ve got nothing to hide!”

“Strip then.”

“S-strip?”

“Yes? Here and now,” Ares frowned when everyone looked at him in such bewildered stare. “You’ve got nothing to hide, then prove it. Simple. Take your clothes off. Or should I?”

“… Ares.”

“Why, Lene, it’s for public safety. Hmmm. Still embarrassing for you to see? Very well, I understand. You—come with me. This way there are only us there—likewise, if I found a weapon on you…”

“Areees!”

“Yes—ouch…”

Everyone blinked in surprised again because the dancer just conveniently yanked the warrior’s mullet. “Now, _you_ sit!” she huffed. “I understand that you’re worried about me, but—striping him?”

“… Understood.”

Lene sighed. “W-well, Mister Farmer! Sorry for unnerving you, but I assure you, Ares here is not…”

The farmer expression changed upon hearing the name. “Ares?” he bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Did you say Ares? T-then… are you the Black Knight?”

* * *

 

The carriage rolled smoothly on the road.

Four other cavalrymen rode alongside it, making an arrow-shaped formation commonly referred as the wedge—a typical offensive formation a cavalry unit tended to form if they were to engage a rivaling cavalry unit in battles or if they were to ride alongside a supply wagon.

The farmer from prior had come to hire both the dancer and the Black Knight, as entrusted by the village elder. After the nerve-wrecking encounter with the Black Knight himself—who was close to frisking him with his sword for his ungracious entry, eventually things calmed down that they could talk business. The mighty warrior still eyed him suspiciously like a lion, but his gaze immediately tempered when the farmer eventually reached the important magic word—job, while the dancer took a seat beside him.

The dancer paid attention to everything the farmer relayed to them, patting the wary lion cub on his thigh under the table because he looked like he anticipated an ambush. His eyes were wide open and despite the stiffness his body language conveyed, he was alert because his dominant hand never once left the hilt of Mystletainn.

The farmer wanted to hire her for a harvest festival—and him, to help guarding their village as they processed the crops. Hard life in Darna and Bramsel’s own neglect of the areas he was supposed to govern made villages being prone to be preyed by warlords and bandits alike. While a bountiful harvest made the villagers rejoiced for the chance of remedying previous failures, at the same time it fished anxiety out of everyone who feared ambushes and raids while the festival commenced.

The dancer looked outside. She had never trod this route, let alone riding with a mercenary group. As contract signed and agreement reached a conclusion, Javarro decided to have three other mercenaries to ride alongside Ares to the village—two being a spear-wielder with a proficient javelin-thrower between them, and with the last man being a mounted archer, four of them made quite a solid cavalry team which had most of battlefield aspect covered and suited the payment the village could afford.

The farmer was nothing but excited to have the dancer occupy the carriage with him. The trip was pretty stealthy for they determined to reach the village before sunrise, and with the dancer being inside with him, silence was merely a shadow because it did not take long for them to engage each other in a chit-chat. By the time the moon was up high in the sky, her light chuckles practically colored the night in-between of howling owls and flapping bird wings.

Meanwhile the black kitten Eldie peacefully rested in her lap. Even without being asked, she could sense that Ares was a bit worried leaving the cat alone at the compound, knowing well he would not be returning for the day, risking the feline to be neglected. Although Javarro did not strike her as someone who would abuse animals on a whim, the Black Knight was probably unwilling to bet on his chances that anyone present for the night would tend to the feline as diligently as he would.

… Admittedly, just like the day when he entrusted the animal in her care when he had to ride as a warlord’s attack dog, the presence of little Eldie was calming. Supposedly, if the kitten did not protest or behave oddly, then there was nothing to be concerned about… right?

 _Perhaps,_ the dancer thought again. Feeling pleased to reach such conclusion she smiled under the engulfing darkness, gently stroking the kitten. Her light chuckles made their departure as she knocked on the carriage’s window, startling the mercenaries who traveled with her.

“Pardon,” she said cheerfully. “I just want to thank Ares. For leaving the kitten with me~!”

The mercenaries exhaled in relief, realizing that there was no emergency alert.

“Is she always like this? Well, I’ve never traveled with a female passenger before, but… is she?” one of the lance-wielder glanced at the mighty Black Knight, who led the group in silence. He strategically positioned himself by the right side of the entourage, around two-three steps behind the lancers.

“Does it matter?” Ares responded flatly.

“Must be nice to live a risk-free life,” the archer grumbled. “Life isn’t fair. She gets to doll herself up and dance and be comfortable in anything.”

The Black Knight somehow felt like he itched to punch his comrade for saying that. Easy? “Well,” he deadpanned, “you can switch.”

“What?”

“Right. Don the costume, take the stage, labor your feet while she takes your position here with me.”

“… Oi, Black Knight.”

“Or you can be the farmer. Work your ass off every day of the week and scrape whatever you can scavenge in winter,” the alias-bearer replied calmly.

“How is it still fair, considering that makes me vulnerable,” the archer grumbled—again.

“Beats me,” the Black Knight smirked, shrugging. “A fair life doesn’t equal your being the only one getting to be at ease. I can’t shoot like you, yet you don’t see me wetting my pants just because you can.”

The dancer could hear their conversations from inside. Sighing, she curved her lips, knocking on the carriage’s window again. When she saw his face peeking in, she smiled. “I’ll keep it quiet here. Sorry.”

He looked awkward. She noticed how his hands shifted over the rein; with one maintaining his control of the mount while another fixing the glove. “You better get some sleep,” the warrior finally nodded at her. “And you too, Mister Farmer. If you’re not used to a night-ride like this, then you better readjust because there’s a chance you’ll be too exhausted to sleep once we get there.”

“… Admittedly, the darkness is quite overwhelming,” the dancer looked outside, appearing pensive for a second. With tall trees surrounding them, the only sounds she could hear were either their horses galloping or the occasional rustling of weapons being brandished and unsheathed to clear the way. “Um… my apologies, I’ve never had a trip this late, let alone riding with a military unit…”

Suddenly it dawned on him that she might try to ease the looming silence among them. It probably made her uncomfortable, riding in a closed, fortified carriage while armored combatants did not shy away with their weapons being kept in a steady stance in case they ran into predatory wild animals. And with the farmer who had been no less chatty than her, he might have kept her awake with the naïve yet adoring stares and idolizing manner when interacting with her.

What if she could not sleep because it was uncanny—to be asleep in front of a stranger… a _male_ stranger? He had thought that an ardent admirer would make a better companion than mercenaries for the dancer—after all, the farmer, like the entire village, had been eager to receive her, and he imagined the significant mark to fame would please her.

“Are you going to ride beside me—the carriage—all night long?” she asked again.

He looked at her again. Her eyes widened; curiosity was there with a reluctant anticipation that he could not resist to silently compare her to an anxious rabbit. “Yes,” his tone was neutral, for he was both aware of the watching comrades and his own intention to normalize everything so she adjusted. “I wield a sword. With me riding at the side two-three steps behind the lancers like this, I have the blind spot covered so an ambush would not outflank us. If a fight was to happen, lancers could move their weapons easier because I wouldn’t be limiting their movement by closing in a dead angle.”

One of the lancers chuckled. “You’re an odd fellow, Black Knight—teaching the lady warfare.”

“Why not?” he responded flatly again.

“Um—for how long?” the dancer asked again.

“Until we get to the forestry area. I’ll change position with the archer at the back over there.”

“Right, right. Just signal me so we can maneuver,” the archer responded.

“Is it because…” the dancer asked again, both worried and curious at the same time.

“Yes?”

“… Because I disturbed you? By talking?”

He tugged on the rein to maintain his mount’s pace. “… No, rabbit,” he could not resist to pat on the carriage, like he wanted to personally pat her, convincing her that he truly meant what he said. “Because cavalry units are vulnerable in the forest. I’ll lead this entourage from the back because in case of ambush, I’ll be ready whereas my archer won’t, considering he holds a ranged weapon.”

“Thanks for reminding me of your prowess,” the archer sighed while the lancers chuckled.

“I don’t understand,” the dancer replied. “I—sorry, but…”

“It’s alright,” Ares nodded reassuringly at her. “Highwaymen often do some little tricks to catch you off guard—like lassoing your neck from behind to forcefully dismount you. I wield a sword—it is easier to fortify myself because a lance needs more room to harness while an archer can’t shoot that way. When we switch I can guard this group from behind. The archer is protected within the line, which should help him to shoot faster. If something happened, we could change direction or maneuver quickly.”

“Oh,” she muttered.

“Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, can you sleep?” the warrior smirked.

“I’ll try,” she replied softly. “… Ares?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you~!” she smiled. “And Eldie is sleeping, by the way.”

“Join him then,” the feared mercenary chuckled.

She ran her fingers through the kitten’s fur, trying to make herself comfortable. From the window she could hear a whistling sound. Peeking outside made her understand that Ares had exchanged hand signals with the archer, whom by now took turn riding close to her while the warrior took the rear line.

She peeked further. The archer muttered disapproval, asking whether she had a death wish by risking a free-fall from the carriage for sitting like that.

“Signal me again when we are deep in the forest,” she could hear Ares spoke again from the rear line. With the increasing of sounds of rustling trees and howling owls, the surroundings around her only got to be darker, darker than ink until she could not see her hands anymore. She felt Eldie in her lap shifted, probably sensing the change in the intensity of the darkness.

She stroked the kitten again.

The farmer was fast asleep, perhaps because she had stopped replying by the time the darkness started to be too overwhelming to bear. Exhaling softly, she tried to relax herself. At least she was inside, warm and comfortable while Ares and his entourage did not stop as they wanted to push their horses to the typical maximum coverage the steeds could reach—around six to eight hours of riding for a day, which then would conveniently correspond with their arrival in the morning.

She held the kitten close to her chest. By then she understood that she could not sleep. Perhaps it was the surroundings. Perhaps because she did not feel like doing it with a man—a man she did not know—sleeping in front of her. Who would have thought being adored was kind of awkward and… tiring?

She did not know how long it was until a distinguished whistling sound startled her. From the window she could see the archer slowing down his mount as if he was about to be engulfed by darkness. The archer maneuvered around, and by the time the darkness slowly dissipated like sands being washed over by the water, she spotted a familiar figure was back by her side.

“Ares!”

“Yes.”

She cupped her mouth, feeling so embarrassed to have voiced his name crystal-clear like that instead of containing it in her mind. “Are we… out? Of the forest?”

“Not yet. Close, though.”

Moonlight fell on them, spectacularly creating the view of a silvery sky ornamented with stars as if there was a gigantic slender blade cutting right into the earth, revealing a gentler side of the night.

“Wow~! Um—I mean—eh,” she followed-up sheepishly, again feeling so embarrassed for voicing her thought like that, silently hoping she didn’t annoy the mercenaries further for ruining their concentrating on the road.

He chuckled, however. “Truly can’t sleep, rabbit?”

“You can say so,” she replied sullenly. “Well, excuse me, I’ve never been in this kind of trip before, so…”

There was a pause from her side, and she received an answer when he suddenly clicked his tongue. The mount slowed down, and she stared wide-eyed, catching the warrior slowly hoisting himself to _stand_ on the saddle... facing backwards. He clicked his tongue again—twice, thrice… while the archer notched an arrow, glancing left and right. A tree branch awaited the group at the front, and he began counting…

Ten. Nine. Eight.

The warrior held his position as his hand traveled to reach his sword.

Seven. Six. Five—

“Clear,” she heard the archer speaking.

… Four. Three. Two—

Only then she noticed Ares had crouched on the saddle, with his hand not leaving the sword.

ONE.

She blinked.

Big tree branch fell helplessly against the ground, making a loud thumping sound.

“Clear as well,” she heard him responding before clicking his tongue like prior, slowing down the mount as he steadily got back into a normal riding position, giving a gentle pat as he thrilled his tongue.

The mount caught up by beginning to run faster.

“Oh—gods,” she muttered. “Ares, you scared me! Why did you stand on the saddle—backwards?!”

“Man, the prima donna is a chirping parakeet,” the lancers chuckled. “It’s alright, Miss! The archer can supervise the front line as well as the right and the left, but the rear line remained off-vision, so…”

“So I did it,” the warrior in question chuckled again, finishing the sentence. “And he needed to stretch a bit to shoot. If I didn’t cut that branch, his head would be miserable. Let her talk.”

“S-still,” the dancer replied. “That was dangerous! Darn it—please adopt some sense of _fear_.”

“Ay, need ye not worry ‘bout that, Miss. The Black Knight is undefeatable,” one of the lancers responded.

She was silent then. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he was well-versed in the art of warfare. Perhaps…

She could see why people admired him—his prowess, his fortitude, his ability to withstand any terrain and difficulties his battlefields subjected him into. His sharp unforgiving cuts with the Demon Sword, his overwhelming power and pure martial strength he displayed on some occasion.

… But this was also the warrior who voluntarily took responsibility scanning his surroundings to keep everyone safe as a precaution despite being the leader of this group. The warrior who explained everything to her to put her mind at ease. The warrior who strategically positioned himself not because he wanted to be protected—but because he could be the first defensive wall a potential adversary had to face off against before they could get through to the group.

“… Still can’t sleep?” she heard him asking from the outside.

“I suppose,” she responded, moving Eldie over to the comfortable carriage seat now that the ride was tamer. They were out of the forest, she could tell, because moonlight reached them without hindrance unlike prior when darkness swallowed the carriage, with tall trees barricaded their view. Most importantly, the road was less bumpy now, with the sandy ground being back at the mounts’ feet instead of big roots and confining forestry terrain like prior.

He cleared his throat.

“I—I’ll try! I won’t talk to you again after this!” she quickly added. She did not want to make him suffer that much—either from shielding her from his disappointed comrades who needed his alert prowess for the night, or making him appear ridiculous in front of them like she was someone he had to babysit and coddle like a spoiled princess.

He cleared his throat again.

“I promise!” she spoke again, gluing her face to the window so he could see how determined she was.

“… Open the door.”

“What?” she could not believe her ears.

“Set Eldie aside and put on your mantle. Open the door?”

She frowned. Yet she did, anyway. Perhaps he had a plan? Or he wanted to complain more?

Curious, she did as he asked, making only a small room because they did not stop.

“Give me your hand.”

“My… hand?” she looked at him again, holding up her hand regardless. “What for—aaaa~h!”

She squealed. He pulled her onto the horse, sneaking his arm around her waist so that she could seat herself behind him. Chuckling mischievously, he slammed the carriage’s door shut. “Steady yet?”

“Y-yes,” she replied, clutching onto him. “Okay, I get it—I was noisy…”

“Not that, rabbit. Look above.”

“Above?” she tilted her head.

The moon shone spectacularly right above them, looking like a fine pearl—so bright, so close as if she could just reach it by jumping higher. Holding her breath to admire it, her eyes traveled back to the lion cub, who still raced the road with unchanging alertness like prior. The archer whistled from the rear, commenting how easy it was for him to scoop her up. The lancers thanked him for the branch he cut, praising his ability to hold on being on horseback in a standing position longer than most of them could while still delivering a perfect powerful blow like that.

“I have no need for praises,” he responded dismissively. “Don’t loosen your guard. We’re close by.” Just then she pinched his waist—by now a typical gesture he understood as an act of warning, or protest. “Not you too,” he smiled wryly. “If you want to praise me, save your breath.”

She shook her head. As always, he found himself in a fog battle—for she kept surprising him every now and then, which often resulted in his defeat. “Rather than that, I think you are really kind.”

She beamed at him, and he found himself having to clear his throat—again, pursing his lips as he turned his face away from hers. _What a formidable opponent,_ he mused—for he was defeated… again.

* * *

 

The village was more tranquil than he anticipated.

Their entourage arrived around the witching hour. Initially panicking because the dancer was nowhere to be found, the farmer could only _stare_ when he saw that she was in the care of the fabled mercenary, looking so carefree while he spared a faint smile every so often as her banters and jokes accompanied the group to leave the forest.

The village elder welcomed their entourage as the farmer stepped out of the carriage to introduce the dancer and the mercenaries. Both even said the group could make use of the nearby hot spring to relieve the exhaustion from traveling, and there were refreshments they could enjoy before bed at this simple cabin the villagers had set for their stay. Understanding that his name, position, and pay rate within the group exceeded his comrades, the other mercenaries did not bat an eye when the Black Knight got better treatment than the rest of the crew while the dancer gladly took the kitten Eldie to settle with them.

“Oh, no, no, you are our guest, Miss! Please, I can’t let you in. My house is small and with two little grandchildren, ‘tidy’ is never in our vocabulary,” an elderly cleric, one of the village elders who had suggested for her to be invited, sheepishly turned her away.

“Oh, it’s alright! I just need…” she yawned, quickly slamming her mouth shut with her hand. “… Sleep,” finishing her sentence, she sheepishly chuckled at the elder. Had this been a Darnaian, she couldn’t really care. But this was a completely new environment, and her stage mannerism immediately kicked in for wanting to present the best for the people who had been so respectful and appreciative of her.

“Right, right. Then take a rest, dear. The festival will take place tomorrow evening...”

“I’m sorry—but Elder, you allocated the same cabin for me with the… uh, mercenaries?” she blinked.

The village elder blinked back at her, calling the farmer. “She is not married to Sir Black Knight?”

“I’m—sorry?!” her eyes bulged now.

“I thought you said ‘his wife’s an entertainer’, farmer,” the elderly cleric protested.

“Nooo, Elder—‘his waiting entourage’ it was!” the farmer retorted. They both now looked back at the dancer, awkward and red-faced to the bones. “M-my. S-sorry about that, Miss Lene…”

“I’ll—see what needs to be done, my child—don’t worry! Gods, my ears truly have gone bad. Just one of those little things you get to taste at seventy-six, I guess,” the Elder muttered, right when Ares and the mercenaries were back in the cabin.

“Oi, my forehead’s bleeding.”

“I only kicked you, at least you didn’t die.”

“Black Knight, you asshole.”

“Then don’t surprise me from underwater, fucker.”

“Who the fuck takes a sword to a bath, ya pillock?”

“Who the fuck pulls another person’s legs in a hot spring, mandrake?”

The mercenaries’ coarse, boyish chatters ceased immediately the way stove fire quickly died down when being contained with a wet sack. Four of them could only _stare in pain_ when they found the dancer there, looking so incredibly awkward as she faced the mercenaries—half of them wishing they were dead, while the other half probably hoped she was, first. The boys—mercenaries—were back in the cabin with nothing but their towels on them, and dirty clothes scattered around the triple bunk beds which both lancers and the archer occupied. Being a private person who absolutely disliked having his things being touched by other hands besides his, though, Ares’ bed was pretty tidy, for the Black Knight had neatly folded his clothing articles on the bed, topped with the blanket. The whole arrangement screamed bloody warning as if telling people that he would find out if they touched his belongings.

“Why—are—you—here, Miss?” the archer asked, scratching his head.

“Uh—apparently this is my room as well?” the dancer replied, even more awkwardly, mirroring him by scratching her head.

“My apologies! I misheard! I mis—ooh, dear gods, should they behave unlawfully tonight please don’t punish us by taking away the blissful harvest!” the elderly cleric panicked.

“Elder, rest assured, I will not do what she does not want me to do in this cabin…”

“Ares—why the hell do you keep having this knack of saying the darndest things with a straight face?!”

“Lene, it is not that I find you unpleasant.”

“Ares.”

“… Lene?”

“Hnnnn. YOU shut up!!”

The mercenaries gulped again for the second time.

“S-she slapped him.”

“And bludgeoned him with the hilt of her sword?”

“H-hold on—Miss—Miss, you have a sword?!”

“Help, our Black Knight is being maimed!!”

With the cabin drama subsided and Ares practically glaring at everyone else to mind their manner, a consensus was reached. “W-we’ll help, we’ll help! Just name it!” the other mercenaries quickly retorted while the dancer paused at the side of her… well, her and Ares’ bed, looking completely sullen. Despite the farmer’s heartfelt resolve to mend everything for them, neither she nor the Black Knight had the heart to demand the villagers of anything at three in the morning.

She turned away, her back was facing the men as they hurriedly getting dressed.

“I—excuse me…” with utmost carefulness Ares crossed the bed trying to retrieve his clothes back.

“Hnnn. Not excused!”

“Ah. Very well. If you wish for me to be only in my towel for the entire night, I shall comply.”

“Hnnnhhh—w-whaaat?”

“… You don’t?”

“You—ohhh, gods,” the dancer sighed. “You meant you want your clothes back.”

“… Yes?”

“T-take it.”

“I am most grateful.”

“Aaah, please, stop talking like that! S-shut up your straight face.”

“I shall comply as well.”

“H-hnnn. Cut it out. H-here, have the clothes back, it’s going to be cold at night…”

“Won’t be if we share the blanket?”

“Who says you can have the blanket?!”

“Oh. I see. I shall comply with that too—“

“Sir Black Knight!” the farmer returned to the cabin. “My apologies for the mishaps… oh?”

“Something the matter?”

“… No. No. Elder, you truly have such divine power—you should have heard them arguing, they are indeed married! How did you know? How could you even fathom it?”

“… I’ll kill him after this,” Ares muttered innocently.

“Nooo, you don’t kill clients,” the dancer sighed, exasperated. “Y-you can have the blanket.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

“Huh…” the dancer paused. She offered it out of awkwardness, and despite the banters thrown between them she could actually see that he was just as embarrassed if not more than she was. She already felt cheeky enough, for dooming Ares with her attacks like that while not actually sincerely hating his presence beside her like that. It would feel much better to be trapped under the same roof with him, rather than with his three comrades she did not even know well in person.

Everyone watched again as Ares casually dragged himself off the bed. The warrior contemplated on everything they had in the room—a drawer, two simple cupboards for them to place their things, and lastly the triple bunk bed. Everyone exchanged glances with each other while the dancer slowly turned around to curiously find out what he was about to do.

“Wew,” the mercenaries goggled when the warrior pushed the cupboards.

Well, especially her.

He rolled his sleeves, unyieldingly pushing the cupboards to the space between the bunk bed and the bed he was supposed to occupy with the dancer. When the other mercenaries were too stunned to react, the dancer quickly got up from the bed to reach him.

“Gods—wait, I’ll help!”

“It’s alright, Lene.”

“Hnnn. I should be the one on the floor anyway, considering there are four of you…”

“Fair point. Okay, you can help me.”

“Alright! I will…”

“… By staying there.”

The dancer stopped. “… You did that again,” she whispered softly.

The warrior finished dragging the cupboards to barricade the bed from the bunk bed’s view. Tilting one cupboard to face the bed while another to the bunk bed, he looked satisfied, patting one of the cupboards while gesturing back at the dancer. “Now you can place your things while we have ours.” Just then he took the blanket, draping it over the mercenaries’ side of the cupboard. Not done yet, he took his black cape, redoing the process it over the side which directly faced the mercenaries. “And more privacy for you. From here, we won’t be able to see anything.”

“… Hnnn.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience, but I hope you can bear it—we are only here until tomorrow.”

“Hold on,” the dancer tugged on him. “And where are you going? It’s like three in the morning!”

“Sleep?”

“B-but,” her voice lost its way, the way her face of its color for she did not dare to look at him. “The bed.”

The warrior chuckled. “I get the blanket, you the bed. Night, rabbit.”

The dancer watched as the warrior took his sturdy traveling leather satchel with him. Ares retreated to the side of the mercenaries, now neatly separated by the cupboards and privacy layers he installed. The warrior simply set himself on the wooden floor with the satchel as his pillow, and in mere seconds he folded his arms, Mystletainn being in his embrace as his dominant hand conveniently rested on the hilt.

The dancer cupped her mouth.

Without making a sound she retreated back to the bed. Of course it was comfortable, warm and pleasant—having such bed for herself, with the entire pillow at her disposal. She could faintly hear the other mercenaries chattering faintly as they drifted to sleep—again, how begrudgingly powerful the Black Knight was, how versatile he was that he survived his surroundings, adjusting and overcoming it by quickly finding a solution to fix a problem. They gleefully said it was lucky to ride with him because his capability would ensure victories, and that their chores would be much easier because of him.

The dancer shook her head sadly. Was that all? These people met the warrior daily, even lived with him—but somehow she could not help but thinking they missed greatly. Sure, he was a strong man, powerful warrior blessed with the gift of martial capability. Perhaps he was indeed a versatile survivor. Yet through fragments of their interactions, those things did not matter to her as much as this idea she had about him in her mind—and while she knew she was right, the curse was she seemed to be the only person to even think of it.

The dancer held her breath, keeping her sword by her side. When she no longer heard anything, she got up as silent as she could, taking the blanket he had draped, folding it to be carried.

The warrior appeared to be asleep along with the rest of the mercenaries.

His dominant hand still tightly clutched on Mystletainn’s handle. Ever-guarded that he was, he straddled on the floor with his left leg lifted, forming a letter L as his right one was comfortably angled inwards. With his eyes closed like that, the dancer tiptoed around, and…

She gasped.

His eyes ferociously opened like being rudely awakened from a slumber. The lifted leg was close to make a swift kicking motion aiming for her throat as his dominant hand moved to unsheathe Mystletainn.

“Ares, it’s just—me…”

The warrior blinked upon hearing her whisper.

He wanted to say something, anything, but the dancer looked at him in an understanding manner, gently shaking her head, silently telling him it was alright because she understood it was his battle-ready reflex kicking in. When he looked like he wanted to protest her—protest her for forgiving him so, so easily, she merely smiled, making a gesture with her index finger.

“Ssh.”

Just then she draped the blanket over him.

He let her fix the fabric on him, feeling the material easing the crass sensation he felt for laying against the wooden floor like that. He wanted to thank her—but then again…

“… Why?”

“Because you are so kind?”

He wanted to protest, but she already retreated to her bed with a wink.

* * *

 

They slept soundly for some hours more, and business waited as soon as they woke up.

The dancer enthusiastically followed the farmer and the elder to see where the festival would take place, listening them talking about the village’s culture and how glad everyone was because this spring’s harvest was bountiful compared to last year. It was drought—both villagers told her; something they anticipated considering the desert region, but everything would have been much better if only Count Bramsel would send food aid to relieve hunger. For a season everyone struggled to survive with the leftover sources and stock they had, and the villagers could only breathe when autumn came, offering a chance to farm again.

“Typical story, perhaps,” the elder tried to lighten the situation by chuckling. “Did I bore you, child?”

“Oh, not at all!” the dancer responded cheerfully. “I like learning about these things, Elder. Actually, it helps me planning for the needed choreography…” she hummed a bit. ”Will it be solemn?”

“Oh, no, no, it will be merry. We’d like to thank the gods anyway,” the elder replied. “Feel free to look around, dear. These days I can’t really walk that much. Old age, you know?”

“I will carry you if you allow me, Ma’am.”

Everyone stopped walking. The Black Knight Ares approached them; his sword was securely hanging on his belt as always. That day he did not don the cape nor the armor, however—instead, he showed up in a simple short-sleeved shirt, and he had changed by wearing comfortable dark-colored breeches instead of the typical black-lined white riding pants.

The mercenaries were ready to work fortifying the village as much as she was ready to rehearse.

“Really, Sir Black Knight,” the elder chuckled again. “Why, if I didn’t know what you do for a living, I’d have thought you are a noble knight or some sort.”

“I am not,” the mercenary replied simply as he hoisted up the elder while the dancer tailed behind.

The farmer followed behind them. In-between his chirpy adoring compliments towards the dancer, he filled in the Black Knight about terrains, topography, and what the mercenaries could expect as well as what the villagers hoped to achieve. They had been raided before, the farmer said; the bandits often came when people were either asleep or busy at the field before emptying their barns, draining them of the stored grains and whatever they managed to collectively gather at that time. The peak of the attack happened during winter because their silo had been breached and the bandits left with their coals.

The Black Knight did not say anything as he listened. There was no damaged building so far—spared some villagers who got hit with a wooden block and left unconscious around the barns so the thieves could break in. They made their entry stealthily, and returning villagers would be too late to get their goods back by the time the raiding party made their exit.

After returning the elder to her house, Ares and his mercenary comrades began to work. Their first destination was the village square where everyone would gather for the celebration, and the dancer tailed them again to get used to her soon-to-be stage.

The square made up a center of the village’s activities—it was not far from the small river where most villagers got their water from, and there were trees around being the gate to the forestry area their group traced the night before. Four buildings framed the area into a square—three collective barns to store the harvests for communal purpose and food stock, with a silo where they kept their coals and natural fertilizers, processed and overseen by villagers whose turns were decided by lottery every week.

“And we get our woods from those trees,” the farmer pointed out. “Seared the leaves because if we did not need the herbs, we did that last fall to bake potatoes and yams we stored. Winter would have these trees without leaves anyway.”

Ares walked to the tree and slammed his fist against it.

“Sturdy enough. But…”

He unsheathed Mystletainn, purposefully rolling it against the branches as if testing how far they could be pushed and bent before they finally gave in. His blade tip felt the cambium, and he withdrew when he thought he already got what he needed.

“We’ll use them without chopping,” he nodded at the farmer. “But if you have the chopped branches, let’s get them out because I’d like to borrow them as well.”

For the whole day, the dancer watched the mercenaries working under his leadership. He gathered his small group at the square, telling them what they would be doing and what the plan was. She, on the other hand, took advantage of the square to begin rehearsing.

She threw her hand upwards, imagining how the bracelets she would be wearing for the night to create rhythmic sounds as she moved. For a moment she closed her eyes as choreography ideas began to fill her mind—the sun being so close and warm that she thought she could catch the rays with her hand, in a net… beautiful silvery moon like what she saw last night gracing the sky, blessing the villagers with peaceful slumber filled with sweet dreams and hope… and as she twirled and twisted, in the end the legs which hopped to convey the merriness of a successful harvest would find their harbor by the ground; for she would  be on her knees in a prostrating manner—a reminder to stay humble and offer gratitude to the gods. Feeling satisfied to outline her concept, she moved again, mimicking the gestures of labor—plowing the field, seeding the plants, watering them, removing wild weeds with sickles…

He watched her practicing.

His group had begun their work—they dragged the chopped branches to the square, sharpening the tips. When those were done, they planted the branches on the soil, and he lined them all with a strong rope to hold them in place. Covering the sharpened branches with leaves, he moved further from the square, to the area where outsiders might reach first should they aim to get inside the village. With his group helping him, the mercenaries dug a trench, matching their sharpened branch barricade in length.

Smirking, the mighty mercenary parted their little pool of damnation with the help of cement and bricks. He filled one side with soft, damp, fresh… cattle dung, and leaving the other part unattended waiting for the cement to dry.

With that concluded, he returned to watch the dancer, having zero intent to come closer being so self-conscious that he was all dirty and smelly from the hard work while his fellow mercenaries took a quick, comfortable rest by the river.

The dancer was still practicing.

She kept going, throwing her hands upwards, left, right… in synergy with her foot swings. No matter how small the mistake was, she would redo everything from the start when she thought she just moved less than perfect.

He counted she might have rehearsed the same movement for around twenty times each before she proceeded to grab her sword. Her skin glistened under the sun, and somehow seeing her swinging the sword with determination left a deep impression in his mind.

… Or perhaps even before that part.

The dancer incorporated sword play in her choreography, like she understood she could take two tasks at the same time—keeping her dancing sharp without letting her newly-learned skill dull. Graceful, graceful maneuvers bewitched his eyes as she utilized the sword to mimic the field work she outlined prior—weeding the field…

 _Low thrusts,_ he noted in silence.

… Plowing the field…

 _Side-sweep,_ he nodded this time.

… Seeding the garden bed…

 _Repeated touché with a riposte,_ his smile blossomed then.

By the time she ended her session to catch a breath his fellow mercenaries were ready to get back to work, nudging him.

“Pretty, isn’t she?”

He didn’t say anything.

“C’mon. I know ya agree.”

He pursed his lips then. “… She is strong.”

“Strong?”

“Yeah?”

“Nah. Still lacking power.”

“I don’t just mean in terms of swordplay.”

“But her legs be shaky too. Still got a long mile to go.”

He simply smiled wider. “Even if that’s the case, perhaps not as long as you thought it would be.”

The dancer turned around, waving at him. He simply bowed a bit in a courteous manner to acknowledge her greeting him, and seconds after he was back to inspect the trench he had been working on, looking pleased to see the cement starting to get dry and filled the emptied part with water.

* * *

 

“Miss Dancer!”

She gasped. Wiping her forehead she set aside the sword, finding two little kids bouncing around her. “Gramma said for you,” they chirped, handing a glass to her. “Do you have a gramma?”

“Grandmother?” she frowned a little bit. The lemonade felt like a blessing in her throat; the sweetness relieved her tiredness while the chilly sensation refreshed her. “Oooh, thank you~! Everything in here is good…” she chuckled, sitting under a tree to take a break.

“Yesh! Elder,” the kids followed. “Gramma said you came at night. We slept—zzz…”

“Right, right~! But now that I’m on a break, I can play,” she winked, clicking her tongue. A black kitten warily showed up from where she set her sword, previously comfortably bundled in the thick cloth which wrapped the sword. “Meet Eldie,” she smiled, speaking in a gentle tone as she petted the kitten. “He isn’t actually mine, though—belongs to the kind blond warrior over there.”

“Oooh, it’s a cat!”

“Careful, my dears~! Remember, animals are not a toy, alright?” she laughed, but her tone was firm. Hearing footsteps, she turned around, finding none but the so-called kind blond warrior she spoke of. “Heheee, here comes the rightful owner. Sir Ares here loves his cat very much.”

“Well,” he smiled sheepishly, scratching his head. “I’ve fortified the square. Dug the soil too to soften it. Even if the thieves managed to escape again, this time we’d get their footprints—oh—children?”

“You have a sword,” one of the kids pointed at Mystletainn.

“Regrettably so!” the warrior simply nodded, seating himself beside the dancer.

“She has a sword as well,” the chirping kid’s sibling pointed at Safeguard.

“But it is for dancing,” the previous kid commented. “What is your sword for, Sir Warrior?”

She sensed how he tensed. He crossed his legs, folded his arms—all the awkwardly defensive manner like a cornered lion. Smiling, she answered on behalf of him. “Helping people in the village!”

He stole a glance at her.

“Helping?” the kids looked at her. “To stop the bandits?”

“Like that!” it was the dancer who spoke again.

“Then you are a nice man.”

“I am not,” the warrior retorted, quickly shifted his tone so that it did not appear grumpy like he just yelled at a kid. “… It’s just—common.”

“Oh?” the kids appeared like they were contemplating something. “Then you can help us making a kite…”

“A kite?” this time the warrior responded.

“Yeshhh. To fly. Like birdie. In skyyy. Sword cuts, nooo?” the kids showed him a long wooden stick, thread lines, papers, and two rope pieces. “C’monnn. Help?”

“I’m not going to unsheathe this in front of kids,” he replied, rougher than he intended to be, and like prior she put herself between him and the kids before they got to ask more from him.

“We’ll find a knife for that…” she took over the conversation with a soft voice. “Because sometimes even a warrior has things he does not like to do. Do you have any?”

“Ooo yes~! Eating boiled carrots…”

“You hate any food, Sir Warrior?”

He paused, glancing at her. “… Sweets,” he muttered, silently conveying gratitude to her with his eyes.

“Ooohhh. Too bad. Sweets good. Candies nice. Chocolates mag—magg—“

“… Magnificent?” the dancer giggled. “I think so as well!”

Ares found himself peeked on her in discreet. Between his defensive, unwelcoming body language, her seamless chuckles distracting the kids from asking him about Mystletainn, her taking over the whole conversation… he thought he could hear her softly reply in negative when the kids asked if she had a grandmother like them. And smart kids had always been brazenly curious—their sharp mind tended to catch adults off guard, just like what the kids did because they asked about her mother then.

“Ours dead,” they muttered. “War bad. Then we live with gramma.”

He saw the dancer unhesitatingly enveloped them in a hug. “Mine was… is… a dancer like me,” she said then. “Wherever she is now, I’d like to believe she is okay. And so she shall be~!”

“Does that mean you are… alone?”

He silently noted that she might need the hug more than those kids might. There was a pause with her tilting her head to the side, but seconds after she shook her head; her cheery tone was back serenading them all like a wonderful evening concerto. “Nooope~! First thing first, I get to play with little Eldie,” chuckling, she pressed her cheek against the kitten’s small face and returned the animal to him. “And then I dance. Dance-dance-dance, yeeep~! I’ll be too busy to think that way! And then…”

He exhaled. “… And then I’ll help you make the kites.”

They turned at him.

He smiled faintly, taking the wooden stick from the kids. Tying a thread in the middle of it to ensure that they would be parted evenly, he put his hands on each end of said stick, conveniently bringing it down to break it over his thigh. “There you go. Don’t play with knives—dangerous.”

“Oooh,” the kids beamed at him. “Then let’s make them, make them~!”

She took turn smiling, again without him knowing. _He is always like that,_ she thought, bemusedly watching him folding papers and fixing them onto the stick with the ropes. One of the kids climbed on him, and she noted that he did not even bat an eye—even when the kids ruffled his hair because ‘it was soooo blonddd’. She would bet on her chances that the other mercenaries would praise him again for breaking the stick like that, but…

“Done. Fly them?”

“Yaaay~!”

With little Eldie was back to reside inside his shirt as always, the kids clutched on him, dragging him to the open space of the square with the kites. The sky glistened as late-afternoon orange sun made its presence around them, and she got up, taking the sword along with the wrap to prepare for the night. The kids were all chirpy-bouncy around him—at least until the elder called them back to return inside for a bath and snacks before the festival, because people began to take tables outside and fill them with foods, fruits, everything homemade as the harvest granted them.

He was back with the kids by his sides. Meeting her eyes, he crouched, whispered something to the kids… and at first she had no idea what he said then, but before she got to ask why the two returned to their grandmother only with one kite, he approached her.

“You weren’t with us.”

He handed the kite.

And just like that, she smiled tenderly at him. The mighty ferocious Black Knight who navigated the night like a trained, stealthy preying lion. The warrior with unyielding strength, possessor of a menacing black blade dubbed as the Demon Sword. The mercenary with lustrous mane whose arrival spoke of danger, the swordsman of doom whom people hid from at night.

… Yet there he was, offering her to fly a kite. Simply because he ought to have caught her shifting her body language, hiding sadness deep within as she continued being the radiant sun which brought people comfort. The way her dances had always been—the way she refreshed her audience, the way she lifted those tired souls and exhausted bodies at the same time.

“You are kind.”

“I am not,” he replied simply again, rolling the thread and held the coil for her. The kite soared well in the sky, rivaling homecoming birds, sailing the horizon as the sun began to set. The way the two of them kept braving life no matter how tough, unstable, and windy the road was.

“Oh, sorry,” she stuck her tongue at him, tugging on the thread to have the knife adjusted as it soared. “… You are really, very kind.”

Her eyes twinkled with so much warmth that he gave up. It was not the first time for him to yield to her, of course, and just like other times, he did not mind. It was odd—yielding which did not result in his misery; yielding which in turn made him feel at peace and calm. It was odd indeed…

He wasn’t with the rest of everyone else when the festival proceeded.

By the time everyone flocked to the square, the mercenaries had taken their position to oversee the thievery. He, however, made sure to take her to the square once she was out in costume, though—shielding her from his own star-struck comrades as well as the villagers who were enchanted by the dancer’s good looks and carefully-crafted appearance because she was now decorated in accessories; her face was powdered and rouged.

Once she found her center, he left.

Merry music started to play, followed by people singing folk songs in joy. People wore their best that evening, and everyone rejoiced, exchanging chatters and laughter around. Clutching her scarf she saw a lady racing her kids before they got to grab a piece of pudding from the long table people had set, mumbling a thing or two being worried while looking amused at the same time.

When her turn to dance came, everyone seated themselves obediently. Nobody uttered a word as she began to move, implementing the choreography she formulated during the day. There was only adoration, adoration and only adoration in their eyes, even more so when she took her sword and incorporated the swings into her dances. Bountiful harvest! Hopeful spring! Hard work paid! And here is to many more to come, for she had come to relieve them of their burden, free them of their tiredness!

“Why, I feel like I keep working the whole day after watching this,” a rancher muttered.

“Right! I feel so energized too,” the farmer who hired her replied. “How lucky Darna is to have her.”

She ended her dance the way she planned it in the afternoon—demurely bringing herself down to the ground, being on her knees in a prostrating manner to thank the gods for the blissful spring. Thunderous, thunderous applause followed boisterously after she lifted her head, smiling at the audience as she picked herself up to bow to them.

“Thank you so much! Thank you for the honor you entrusted me!” she waved back.

The crowd dispersed, chattily proceeded to savor everything that was good on the table. Some of them treated her with so much respect that they were willing to serve her. “You name it, we’ll get it for you!” the farmer said, looking so satisfied like he transformed into a new man on the spot. “That was so invigorating, Miss. Really, I have a good feeling for the seasons to come. Eat more, don’t be shy!”

She smiled. “If that’s the case, then…”

* * *

 

“I see smoke.”

“Protect your nose. Breathe through the mouth.”

“Aye, Black Knight!”

He rolled his cape for a makeshift mask as the other mercenaries followed suit, with any clothing article they cold conveniently find—handkerchiefs, scarves, anything.

“Sleep incense?” the archer whispered, to the approving nod of the blond warrior.

“What do you think?” one of the lancers spoke as they hid behind the fortification they rapidly built.

“Ah, petty thieves. But don’t let your guard down,” the feared warrior cracked a smirk.

“Proof?”

“In the footprints we'll get later, dear mandrake. Professional ones either disperse or just follow the first person who successfully proceeds first to assume a safe path.”

“You called me that just because you’re tall, didn’t you? Fucking lard.”

The Black Knight chuckled devilishly.

“Now I kind of miss the dancer. You’re so tame when she’s around,” the lancer snorted.

“So do I, because if she is here then I won’t be hearing you farting.”

“Talking, you mean?”

“What is the fucking difference?” the warrior cocked an eyebrow.

“We are gross,” the archer sneered.

“I’m not innocent myself,” the Black Knight joined in the jest, chuckling. “Back to business, boys.”

They crouched again, waiting.

As expected, hooded figures began to make a move after some time, thinking that everything had been taken care of because they did not see anyone—or hear anything. The Black Knight smirked when he saw them coming—closer, closer…

“I can shoot them,” the archer whispered.

“Don’t,” the blond warrior grinned. “Never interrupt your opponents when they are making mistakes.”

They waited again.

Before long they could hear someone cussing gloriously for landing in the pit they had set.

“What’s the matter?” one of the hooded figures’ accomplices whispered in the dark, before joining in unison to cuss for landing flat into a pit full of cow dung.

“That will keep them busy and panicked,” one of the lancers spoke. “Now?”

“No. Not until you see horse riders,” the Black Knight replied conveniently. “There has to be a couple. Two cannot run with so many in their hands.”

So, waited again they did.

“What happened? Why does it take so long?”

The blond warrior exchanged glances with his fellow mercenaries when he heard another voice, and they nodded understandingly in return. Making hand signal, he proceeded to mobilize his crew. “We’ll do a cross. You lancers, I need you at both flanks. I’ll be in the center, and archer can cover my back.”

“Got you.”

They moved. The lancers dispersed, separating themselves from him to stealthily move at the right and the left while the feared swordsman kept his position, crawling on the ground like a guerrilla fighter. The archer followed him, altering between proceeding in a squat and walking normally. Their movements were soundless, and in a short time they had the area skillfully covered. When horsemen began to press forward, Ares thrust Mystletainn into the ground, which he followed-up with a hard stomp.

The lancers turned their heads to face him. Their expression changed—no more goofing, being alert and fierce just like he was. The signal transcended well into them, and they quickly unrevealed the sharpened branches trap. The sudden movement startled the horses—now with the pointed tips being directed at them, the horses neighed in panic, throwing the riders off their backs.

“Now.”

The archer nodded, racing forward to rapidly shoot arrows. Ares ran onward, unsheathing Mystletainn with one agile movement. The arrows caught the horse riders by their clothes, and they found themselves trapped inside the trench without a way to get out because the archers managed to nail them on a dead angle. Meanwhile, the lancers tamed both horses, shooing them away from the offending group so they could not retrieve them to escape.

“W-waaah!”

Mystletainn made a glorious slash against the hooded figures, tearing down the incenses they concealed behind the clothes. “Stay put and keep alive. Your back against me, die. Which one?”

It was not a hard question to answer, of course.

“Well, well,” the archer clapped in satisfaction. “That was pretty fast. I quite like the spiked branches.”

“The villagers shall have their fire woods back,” the Black Knight replied, however. “We are not taking anything which they did not give us.”

“Man, no fun,” one of the lancers snickered.

“Which is why we are here and they are there,” Ares responded, darting a watchful glance at the offending group they overpowered. “If you have qualms about it, though, you can join them anytime.”

“You…”

“What?”

“Asshole, you’ve gone soft.”

“No, _asshole,_ that’s called professionalism,” the blond warrior snorted back. "I'm not harming civilians, non-combatants, or those who choose to surrender. And of course, in most cases, ladies."

“Yeah, yeah. We gonna call back those partying folks now or what?”

“Not now,” Ares threw his blond strands behind his shoulders. “They are celebrating.”

“See, soft,” the lancer sighed.

“Oh?”

“Soft, man. See, because… what the—heck?!”

The lancer gasped when Ares let out an ominous chuckle when taking hold of his waist. In a split second the warrior hoisted the lancer off the ground, throwing him onto the soft soil they dug near the trench. “… Yes?”

“Goshdangit—“

“I’m aware I’m bad with words. No wonder mine did not work,” the blond warrior responded in a purposeful solemn manner as he bent, giving a hand to help the lancer getting back on his feet. His eyes sparked playful mischief with a warning at the same time—that whatever thought his comrade had of him, he was prepared to destroy it.

Still chuckling and taking turn to exchange uncouth, crass insults and derogatory names both mercenaries dragged themselves back to finish the job—securing the offending party with coils of ropes they procured from one of the barns.

Ares checked his pocket watch. Moonlight helped illuminating the surroundings that he could read what it said. “I guess it is fine now,” he said, sitting cross-legged on top of the grassy soil with Mystletainn diagonally crossing his chest. The archer nodded, grinning at him before disappearing to get the elder and farmer while the lancers followed to herd the horses to the elder.

Ares maintained his sitting position. He would not doubt that his comrades might have joined the parade, probably eating with the villagers at this point—even if against their own will considering how warm the people were, not to mention with the elder who liked to serve guests. For a moment the elder reminded him of his own grandmother—even in refuge when Agustria was plunged into chaos, she would make sure he ate well. She would take him to the market during the days when his own mother was too weak to walk, during the days when supplies were halted that snacks turned into wild apples.

 _Brooding again,_ he thought, returning his attention to the thieves he needed to guard. Probably why he could not bother the elder more than what she allocated him—just like the cabin.

There was a sound of a pebble hitting the ground, and his eyes again turned into a pair of fierce, alert golden-copper discs, ready to take down the stealthy party. Keeping his senses on alert he paid attention to his surroundings, anticipating an ambush thinking the thieving group had a hiding accomplice who escaped the traps.

 _How many?_ —he thought as he began to hear footsteps.

He pictured a nervous-yet-eager person trying to get to the square, judging from the way the footsteps rhymed when hitting the ground. Suddenly he wondered if this accomplice might have been mingling with the villagers, and now that their crew did not take them back after a supposed raid, they were getting anxious and wanting to check the barns themselves.

Just like during the trip, he started counting.

One. Step—

He clutched the base of the sheathed Demon Sword with his left hand.

Two…

He soundlessly returned the sword to be anchored by his belt.

… Three.

He had a naked Mystletainn ready in his right hand.

… The footsteps came closer…

 _One meter behind,_ he thought, quickly assuming a standing position and swung the sword.

The clouds dispersed, giving way for the moonlight to shine onto him. And just like the night prior, he growled, for again holding the dancer at a blade point.

“Oh, it’s just you…”

They uttered it together at the same time, and he sighed, withdrawing his sword to sheathe it back. “… Why?”

“Because you weren’t with us?” the dancer calmly down set the big plate she had been carrying with her all along.

“… Why do you… keep smiling?”

“… Eh?” the dancer blinked.

“I threatened you twice,” the warrior grunted.

“… Because like I said, it’s just you?” the dancer replied, casually settling down beside him. She was still in costume, and he wanted to curse himself even more because it was only clear that she ran straight to where he was once she was done dancing.

“Would you at least think of your safety a little bit,” the warrior sighed again, noting she had placed various foods and cakes on the plate.

“… I’m sorry. I wanted to look for you, but I did not want to ruin your plan…” she murmured, smoothing her bottom wrap as she sat comfortably. “And then I found you alone. So I thought you were idle.”

“… I’m not angry,” the warrior responded. “I was just—“

“Worried.”

He blinked when she ticked his nose. “Well. Yes.”

“Is it because of last night?” she poked his ribs this time.

“If it is?” he replied. Suddenly he chuckled. “… Yet I am the one who said _things_ with a straight face?”

She yanked his mullet. “Well, sooorry theeeen, Sir Ares. You are gravely mistaken. First of all, I know you are an alert lion,” she remarked begrudgingly. “Then I realized you probably haven’t had food.”

He _stared_ at her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she huffed, pushing the plate at him. “See, I can’t possibly taste everything to check which ones are deathly sweet and which one aren’t only to put them back after, you know? So I took each of everything for you here, that will make my job easier!”

He kept staring.

She was blissfully unaware that his eyes were still fixated on her, however. “Let’s see, what do we have here… um, sorry again, I wasn’t really paying attention because I wanted to reach you quickly! My, you should have seen the square back there—it was sooo bright because of the lanterns! Oh, and they seemed to like me! I had the elder’s grandchildren dancing with me too. Some of them even asked for my autograph! O—oh, right, this should be about you this time. Right, back to the foods! I think I caught lemon pie before. You can eat that, right? It’s not deathly sweet, you know. Oh—and the sour and sweet cream is so refreshing. I didn’t even know it would go well with peach slices! Ummm—oh, don’t move that just yet, Ares—it’s grilled chicken! Steady, steady—otherwise you’d spill the spices over the pie!” Just then she realized he was still silent, and she glanced around, finding the thieves he guarded.

She gasped.

“Oh—dear gods. I didn’t know you have prisoners of war there, Ares! Sorry, I got carried away…”

“… No,” he replied softly. “Keep talking.”

She paused. Seconds later her smile found its way, manifesting beautifully on her face. “While you eat, I’ll repeat what I did there,” she winked at him. “So you won’t miss anything~!”

“Perhaps I’ve missed a lot indeed,” he chuckled, taking a piece of cake while she danced before him, all smiles and laughter—until something peeked in from her corset that she stopped moving.

“Awh, little Eldie. Can’t you wait a little bit more? Miss Ares that much?”

He chuckled, clicking his tongue to call the kitten back. “Do not disturb people when they create art.”

“Hnnn~? Oooh, wait. Ares—wait! That’s a sweet one you are eating,” she gasped. “Perhaps we can move somewhere more comfortable where it’s brighter so you can see what you’re eating!”

“Is it?” the warrior looked down at a slice of vanilla chiffon cake in his hand. “… Tasted right somehow.”

“Really?” she hovered closer while the kitten perched itself on its typical favorite spot—on his shoulder before retreating behind his cravat. “Hehehe~ perhaps you begin to build up tolerance.”

“My men did think I’m getting soft,” he chuckled, finishing the cake and wiped his hands. ”So, perhaps…”

She shook her head. “I think you are just really kind.”

“Then I think you are really strong.”

“… What?”

“Hmmm?”

“You teased me,” she huffed.

“I did not,” he laughed a little. “Alright, Lene, I’ll eat everything clean without complain.”

“Oh, gods. Okay, I believe you! Don’t do that—what if you die…”

“Die?”

“N-not like, literally dying, okay.”

“Well, if I’m getting soft then these sweets have no power against me,” he really laughed this time. “Likewise, if I am not, then I’ll be too powerful and too stubborn to die like that just yet.”

She yanked his mullet.

“… Yes?” he tilted his head, his tender chuckles rained on her.

“Look above.”

“Above?—Oops,” he smirked, moving a little when she playfully elbowed him. “Stealth attack won’t work on me, rabbit. Find another way.”

“Hnnn!”

“Another?” he maintained the friendly smirk, evading her hand which was out to whack his head.

“Then…”

He waited, repeatedly telling himself to be careful in case she did want to playfully attack him again. Pinning Mystletainn down with his thigh so that he could not just unsheathe it in a heartbeat like prior and last night, he waited, repeating the _gentle, gentle_ mantra in his mind in case he needed to parry her.

“Say aaa~h?” suddenly she smiled, so brightly, so cheerfully as she took the lemon pie slice to feed him.

“… Lene—“

“Hnnn? Hahaha, my, you’re getting tongue-tied already? Defeated this early?” giggling, she gently shoved the food while he could only stare agape. “Heheheee. Don’t sulk! Look above…”

“Same tactic won’t work on me twice,” he tried so hard maintaining a begrudging tone, which he failed miserably considering his own smile betrayed him. “Again, find another—”

He lost his voice at an instant.

The dancer caught his chin, winking at him, gently tilting his face to look above. And somehow all those reflexes died even before his brain could command his muscles to move. And there he was, again—yielding, surrendering to her, letting her touch peacefully invading his person that he followed where she wanted him to see—the sky.

Right.

Silvery moon hanging beautifully on the sky, appeared so brilliantly from their sitting place. While his eyes were glued to the extraordinary view he witnessed, the dancer softly chuckled beside him. “Payback time, Sir Ares. Because you are so kind like that.”

“I yield to my strong opponent of the night.”

“Eat some more,” she pushed the plate even closer at him. “Look at Eldie, ready to steal your food.”

He sighed. A contended smile brewed on his face as he took a chicken, which he parted a bit to share with the cat. “I guess the lancer was right.”

“What about?”

He took a generous look on her. She had bobbed her head because what he said piqued her curiosity, and the moonlight did help make the better view for him. Concealing a smile, he shrugged.  “Why don’t you ask Eldie?” he muttered absent-mindedly.

“What?”

“I bet Eldie thinks I’m right.”

“… What?”

“What?” he repeated, chuckling again when the dancer pouted and purposefully fed him with yet another sweet cake.

“Cheater,” she jammed her curled nails into his ribcage, tickling him.

“I’m stouthearted enough to withstand torture,” he purposefully spoke in a solemn tone.

“Asshole,” she purposefully replied in a sullen tone.

“It’s Ares, Miss—but letter-wise, close enough,” he couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. “Right, Eldie…”

“About what? That you _really_ do not find me unpleasant?” she pouted. “That you find me…”

“Most likely?” he cocked an eyebrow. “Such a _pretty_ way to put it.”

“Meow,” the kitten joined in unison, gingerly munching the chicken piece the warrior gave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like classical warfare too much, (not) sorry ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). The sharpened branches trap is derived from chevaux de frise / "Frisian horses", something like a portable installation covered with sharpened or spiked woods, conjoined together with ropes (later on metal wire). Specifically designed as an anti-cavalry defense. Ending bloody or not this was meant to take advantage of the mount's behavior, where it would not proceed forward if it ran into sharp object on the front.
> 
> I originally wanted to do a "wolf hole" with the trench trap like Julius Caesar's trademark boobytrap but I decided to make it bloodless this time. Julie's trap would be like shallow trench filled with water with sharpened woods or sticks buried under.
> 
> ... As for the cabin drama, Mom, Dad, I... am an imp OTL but well I want to use that public display of strength to slowly hint on the lion's major Hezul blood. T-trust me, that cabin drama idea popped out just like that. Maybe I shouldn't stay up late to write, more chance for ye olde laptoppe to be possessed :"D


	27. Worship

His presence startled her no more, but it was not quite the case with everyone else—eyes would still bulge while body language changed and movements shifted, subtle or not.

The moment he walked into the door, people would stop whatever they were doing just to look at him, eyes containing silent questions as well as curious anticipation of what he might do next. So strong his presence was that it still attracted a crowd even after all these months, even when Darna’s harsh living condition and stories of suffering going hand-in-hand with cruelty desensitized people even more.

It was typical that it nearly became a predictable pattern for her—and probably other bar-workers as well. He would walk inside, silently, scanning his surroundings like weeding out his selection; either people were to be preyed or spared. As always he would make his presence as stealthy as possible when children were around, concealing the curious black blade dubbed as the Demon Sword from their sight.

“There is no reason for them to spot this one,” he reasoned when she asked.

At that time she argued that weapons were crafted with a will to overpower an opponent—a wicked lovechild of humankind’s ingenuity and primal instinct. She brought up his own points when training her; that in the end she had to be ready to injure another person the moment she wielded her sword.

“That means your sword is no different, Ares,” she said then.

“… My sword isn’t just a sword,” he replied, his eyes looked like they were miles away although she had no idea whether they were far somewhere else or getting stuck in the past.

“Other swords cut and kill,” she said lightly. It was not that she did not want to disregard the gravity of human suffering itself; if anything she had seen firsthand what sheltered well-off ladies were shielded from. Realism met survival instinct bred the pragmatism in her—simply acknowledging that it was the current state she and everyone else in Darna and beyond were in, thinking that if she would just treat everything as normal, then the least likely for the ongoing events to torture her mind in her sleep.

And she determined to survive this world. Surviving Darna, surviving the stages; the way she survived self-training herself in dancing until what previously burdened her hands and legs became her forte, the way she witnessed small growth everyday until her limbs no longer felt so stiff.

“Right,” at that time the fearsome Black Knight responded simply. “They do. But mine _thirsts_ for blood.”

He said that flatly. The way he carried his conversations most of the time—flat, taciturn, delivered in a matter of factly manner that he did not just waste his breath talking for the sake of talking itself. The way how aware he was of his title and job—mercenary; which people might just call the group’s executioner at this point. Yet there he was, so aware of everything that he acted in a certain way as if he would rather not take more space than what he already occupied. Probably because people’s eyes followed him wherever he went, with some begrudgingly admiring his prowess while some other fearing it. Either way, in the end of the day they yielded—to his presence, to the Demon Sword…

And to her, it was an uncanny worship.

This Black Knight removed himself from the presence of the innocent—children and non-combatant folks alike who were at the bar for food and probably dances. The way he never entertained people with the stories of his bloody exploits, the way he hid all his souvenir wounds and injuries from her. The way he kept his mouth shut when people around him were engaging in merriment like he was always, always out of place no matter what.

And she wondered if this conduct prevented him from voicing his opinions. He acted like he did not need to think for other things besides listening to the urge of the Sword; where it would take him and what his next job dictated. Yet at the same time he vanquished it the way he kept his thoughts private.

“Does it?” she countered then. “If that’s the case, Ares—then how come I’m still alive?”

He found himself tongue-tied. The dancer easily held him at figurative blade point again and again. He was not sure how to phrase what he felt at the moment—in awe? Probably. Lene was fearless, having everything he did not—for instance, freedom. How easy it was for her to say what she thought and felt; how suave she was at the art of handling people. Meanwhile he would rather not be approached unless it was absolutely necessary, even by clients.

And they usually did not. He was not there to chat—he was there to do their bidding to kill. And even if he returned to the city with a clean sword, someone else outside might be busy mending broken bones.

It was confusing for him—at first it was scary, to have his mind being penetrated oh-so-easily by the dancer. Thinking was a luxury, and Javarro would say if he had time to think something, he had time to fight. If he had time to feel anything, then it would make a good reason to train—to evaporate it.

Lene felt. And thought. And danced. And won—against him. And he worshipped her for that somehow.

“I’m not killing people for fun,” he replied in a gruff manner, imagining himself trying to desperately get out of being backed to the corner with a peerless swordplay. It was strange, still—first she had not yet bested him in the art of the swords or let alone the fists in the matter. Second, she never seriously hurt him in the most literal sense possible. Third came the oddest of all—that even if his imagination manifested, throwing him in a situation where she did corner him with a sword, part of him did not mind while another would be too busy admiring her bullseye to be troubled.

“I’m not saying you are,” she ticked his nose. “That should mean Mystletainn is just like any sword which cuts and fights—meaning you can be wherever other people be as well, Ares.”

He worshipped her sharp mind. He worshipped her insights. He worshipped the way she saw the world; in a way he thought they were alike—probably was not wrong, but some moments he could attest that she was beyond him, further above…

Perhaps that was the reason why she saw what he did not.

“I’m a dangerous man…”

Suddenly she pushed him, backing him into a corner. Her eyes looked into his and he bowed to match her height, staring back with clear confusion on his face like a child innocently staring at his surroundings. Minutes passed by with him folding his arms, waiting what she would do next.

Just like that, she giggled.

“What?”

His question only fished even sweeter chuckles out of her.

“The sword is still sheathed and you did not even touch me. Dangerous like what?”

He paused. Seconds after he forced himself to scoff, hiding the fact that he was actually greatly amused by her action. He never thought fearlessness and sincerity could exist hand-in-hand, yet it almost seemed like the dancer was born solely to prove him wrong in any take he chose.

“Not acting on something does not equal not capable of it,” he reasoned.

“Yet you did not.”

He paused again. Hiding a little smirk, he eventually replied. “… Don’t push your luck, Miss.”

And she responded by pushing him back to that corner again with a wink. “I just did.”

As always he would silently follow her from behind as she took them back in the bar. Even during their daily encounters at the market for morning shopping, he would tend to do that—tailing her without making a sound like he would not want to disturb her with his presence alone. At the same time he would not unnerve her by making sudden movements, and he always made sure she could see him approaching when he needed to say something to her.

Some days market-goers could see him hoisting up the big leather sack he used to shop for his group’s provisions. Some other days they could see him helping her carrying her purchase. Some other days they could see both—with the extra of him helping elderly shoppers carrying their purchases to their cart while his and the dancer’s were still perched on his shoulders.

Those days both he and the dancer would hear people fawning over his strength. And those days he could count on her to thank him, never once forgetting to tell him that he was kind, just like what she did when they got hired at the same time for the harvesting village.

Something she noticed about him was that he was actually a loyal cub.

Some nights he would seat himself at the typical table people dubbed as his throne, around the same hour, ordering the same typical drink he would that she swore she could almost catch a pattern—ginger ale when he was about to ride nightly, cider when he was idle that he could drop by earlier during the days she did not dance or prior to her dances. Some other nights had him asking for strong liquor if not four glasses of beer—the same nights where he would be brooding under the lantern, shunning her or warning her not to get closer in the very least.

And she did not need to play guess that it was the nights when he bathed in blood.

He used to tell her black clothing helped concealing his presence during the night; to which she debated because his hair was too beautiful to hide in darkness. He, however, reasoned that if his head attracted attention then it would make everything easier for him because at least his eyes were there, and he could spot an attack aiming for his head faster to end the opponent.

He never knew that her sad gaze sent him out of the door in silence.

* * *

 

For him, she was formidable.

He came into such conclusion after being acquainted with her all these months—he had seen her dancing, secretly feeling amazed that her movements had that refreshing effect on him. He would expect the typical audience would erupt in merriment, anyway—after all most visitors who came for the dances and music often hailed from middle-class to working class families who tired themselves out for working physically-demanding jobs from dusk to dawn.

What he did not expect, however, was that he would be among the crowd she charmed.

He never said it, but deep down he understood why people kept coming to see her dances. After all, the dancer was someone of a great beauty—now this somehow made him want to clear his throat a bit—beautiful green eyes, enchanting words, infectious laughter with irresistible smile.

Above all, she was kind.

This was the source of their debates for ages—for her to say _he_ was kind was absurd. When she countered that she was not sweet or kind as he phrased it, he asked for an explanation, half-cursing himself because now she knew that he thought of her as such, half-other being relieved because at least he could eventually let her know that he had nothing but positive opinion about her.

“My fuse scorches once it burns and I can curse better than a bandit,” she stated.

“And you are proud of it,” he replied.

“Exactly! That should disqualify me from your hall of sweetness.”

There was this tempting urge budding inside his chest, hearing her response like that. He prayed that he was strong enough not to smile before replying. “My hall of sweetness?”

“You are famous, you know,” she responded, looking a bit… sulky. “So I’m imagining…”

“No,” he said, casually glancing at Mystletainn. “Because if that was me, chances were the asshole is dead while you only cuss.”

“Hnnn,” she made the familiar humming sound again. “I don’t mean that. I was wondering, you know—since you are this famous warrior and all that, could it be possible…”

“A warrior did not get to be famous by being sweet,” he stared into a distance then. “Those who did were called knights while I’m not.”

“Why, brooding again,” she stuck her tongue at him. “Then tell me, why did you knock out that bar-goer just now?”

“Because he attempted to follow you to the backstage?”

“And the other one from the other night?”

“Because he pickpocketed an old man?”

“And another one from the night even prior?”

“Because he drove like a madman and not even apologizing after unhorsing a kid?”

“There,” she pinched his nose. “The proofs you need.”

“I don’t understand.” He lost count how many times he said it. He was so used to action, to act—to never question. Thinking was for the sheltered. And often times, for the fodders of warfare. And he could not afford losing.

“You protected people too,” she replied in a gentle manner. “Aren’t you a knight then?”

He could not respond. Not even with a single “No,” because above all he just wanted to… think. Did he? He was not even thinking something big when he moved. Not even when his fist met its target that never once he thought of playing knight or wanting to be one. Because he was aware. Because in his mind there was only one person to be ideally titled as such. And while such person had died, above all he would never be that person despite sharing looks.

“Hey, explain…” he wanted to tug on her, but she playfully swatted his hand away, disappearing to the backstage with a chuckle.

On other occasions he would drop for a quick drink. And those occasions would see him arriving in full combat attire—shoulder armor, breastplate, gold-motif cape he would cover with either jet-black rain garb or dark, dark navy blue to ride the night. Some days would see him arriving at the bar with iron protectors he wore to cover his kneecaps. One night he explained to her that despite being mounted, a solid infantry unit made a threat against cavalrymen, and they tended to take advantage of injuring a horseman by stabbing through the leg.

When bar-goers whispered that the nights where he dressed like that meant he would ride as Death personified, she merely shook her head sadly. And between them alone he would take turn to take her into a corner the way she did him a couple of times ….

“I don’t plan to die easily. Thank you for the dance today.”

“You are not Death,” she reasoned.

“I am,” he chuckled.

At that time, she pinched his nose just so he could not talk back while she spoke. “Death would not need to dress like this—protected, blending with the night to reap souls.”

“I can do just fine in any clothing,” he argued. “If moonlight shines onto my armor, it will reflect on the opponents’ swords and that makes my job easier… hunting them.”

She pinched his nose again, until he gasped for air.

“Death does not breathe, Ares.”

He paused.

“I’ll pray for you.”

“Praying,” he repeated like it was such a foreign concept. “… For me?”

“Yeah!” she replied enthusiastically. “For your safety! So you are always out of harm’s way. You don’t?”

“… No,” he confessed. “I learned as a child it was hopeless anyway. Didn’t bring back the dead. Didn’t save me from savage beating I got just for stealing thrown-away bread. Didn’t ease my mother’s pain. I guess in times of despair, people turned to the devil more than they beseeched the gods,” his hand traveled to the hilt of Mystletainn. “… And so far my sword never lies to me.”

“Then I shall do on behalf on you. Lately you have been riding nightly… more often than usual…”

“Ah, right. I’ve talked to Uncle Barkeep to take care of you. Of course when I don’t have missions I’ll be back as your attack dog per usual,” he chuckled, but she yanked his mullet. “… Not that?”

“Nooo. Your safety!”

“… My safety?”

“Of course! I was thinking…” she looked like she was about to say something more, but retracted it in the last minute. Instead, she shoved something into his hands. “… You’ll need to fight, anyway. So…”

He blinked, observing the brown paper package she shoved into his hands. “And this is…?”

There was a soft smile on her when she answered. “Bread?”

“Ah…”

“See,” she patted his cheek with a light slap. “Your sword cannot do that.”

He wanted to say something back, but just like the other occasion she chuckled, again disappearing into the backstage before he could retaliate by debating her further. And he disliked it. Not that he minded about losing to her—it already felt like forever that he could not win, anyway; and somehow he could settle with it, losing to her. In a way it was relieving, to be able to lose—because regardless of what she left him with, she made him… think.

And it was a luxury he could not afford. With her, thoughts came freely… without smelling like blood.

Some other nights he showed up to the bar pretty late, near its closing time. While as always people were either curiously peeked at him or automatically steered away, he could count on her to smile and wave, if not at least acknowledging his arrival by calling his name.

Among these nights he would simply nod from a distance, tilting a bit to tell the barkeep he needed a glass of the strongest they had. And when he did that, he would rather keep her at a distance, because if only she would come closer, she could have seen them—crimson stains, some dried and some did not, still smelling foul courtesy of night breeze.

Some people trembled with fear, dropping to their knees, beseeching to be spared. “What even are you…” they whispered with trembling lips and weary limbs as he wiped the bloodstains off Mystletainn. “A-are you even human at all…”

 _Probably not,_ he thought again, looking at the brown paper package containing the bread she wrapped for him; suddenly feeling so disappointed and angry at himself for letting blood splashed on it.

Her package had saved his liver from being stabbed, however, because the bread had halted the axe which came from under to slash his limbs.

He knocked down that axe-wielder with his fist despite still holding Mystletainn in hand. Tearing the ill-fated packaging, his eyes pierced sharply as he broke the bread she gave him.

There was still a spot of faint blood stain on it, but the Devil be damned, he simply broke the bread, shoving a generous portion of it into his mouth, munching it while his copper-colored eyes ceased questions as people looked in horror.

“… The fuck are you looking at?”

He licked the blood stain. His fellow mercenaries erupted into boisterous cheers as they toasted with each other while their conquered opponents dropped to their knees, trembling at the sight of a mighty lion cub who did not budge at the taste of blood. They imagined him ripping people’s flesh like a beast, drinking their blood under the grim, grim moonlight.

“And what do we do to the rest?” one of his mercenary comrades gestured at a helpless fighter who could barely hold his weapon anymore.

He glanced down. If there was ever a person, such being was reduced to a pile of fearful entity, trembling with fright. “Nothing,” he said, chewing the last bite of the stained bread.

“Nothing?”

“Yeah,” he steered his mount to proudly stand around the rubble of skirmish. “Those who can’t fight anymore or completely lost their will to, leave, or slake my blade's thirst!”

He did not have to threaten twice. In between of the fleeing skirmishers he sat straight on his mount, looking at his gloved hands, feeling so amazed by everything. Her prayers, perhaps… but even if he could not see those with his bare eyes, the bread was real.

Suddenly it dawned on him that he was just protected. What a foreign concept, for the knight in black to be shielded from the cruelty of the night…

“Something the matter, Black Knight?”

He caught his lingering comrade. Shaking his head, he mumbled softly. “… Do you pray to any goddess?”

His question was met with a pondering look.

* * *

 

One particular night he visited the bar near its closing hour. She expected him to finish another mission, or night ride as he would say, signifying the importance and danger which awaited it. Night rides usually meant real skirmishes, where people brandished their weapons at an open field.

That night, however, he appeared more tempered than usual if not cheerful. He returned her smile when she spotted his figure at the threshold, mumbling a simple _Sure, take your time,_ when she told him she would just be changing at the backstage and met him later.

“Will it be alright if…” he swallowed back his words, looking rather pensive as if weighing in if he should say that or not.

“Yeees, Ares, meow~?”

“Ah, nothing…” he was about to sit by the counter, but she shoved him into the corner again.

“You smell like jasmines.”

He cleared his throat, and she caught his reddened face.

“I’m not insulting!”

“I’m not insulted.”

“Hnnn~? Then what was that just now?”

“… Lately I came here indecently,” he replied. “And by that I mean I smelled blood.”

She came back from the backstage, wearing a simpler dress than the elaborated dancing costume she typically wore—a combination of pink, orange, and red, with long scarf she usually draped over her. All her dancing accessories and jewelries were safely tucked inside the cloth bag she usually carried whenever she was scheduled to dance.

The dancer returned to the dining area with tons of flower bouquets in her arms. If he could comment on anything, however, these days the number seemed to double each time he met her after the dance. The barmaid and the cook were done at the kitchen while the waiters just finished returning their brooms near the backyard where the bar kept its cleaning kit.

He offered the waiters to close the wooden door which connected the kitchen to their backyard, a help they welcomed sincerely, for coming from a strong man like him. By the time he was back to the dining area, the dancer was sorting out her flowers.

He could hear her cheery tone sharing her loot with the barmaid and the cook. He noted how she managed to remember what they liked, the colors they would love, and separated her flowers accordingly, with some going to the bar. He listened to her giggling and chuckling, separating the table where she set her flowers into two areas— _the carnations here are for Maeve. Roses for Adela…_

“Wow, that’s quite a lot of money,” the cook beamed. “Congratulations! You’re a star now.”

“Well, well. Aren’t you glad that Sir Black Knight is here tonight?” the barmaid Maeve chimed in with her silky tone. “Perfect timing…”

“Well, who would have thought Ares would be here, anyway? With or without Ares, I’ll go home,” the dancer stuck her tongue at the seductive barmaid. “Now that I’ve collected enough… can I order food from you?” she tilted her head at the cook.

“Food?” the cook cocked an eyebrow.

“I’ve been wanting to give back for a while now,” she confessed. “But I want to make a real change. Almsgiving with mere coins just does not feel right to me… spring gives us a glimpse of the beginning of the money-making season, but some people are often… forgotten.”

“But Lene, dear. If you just want to feed a person, you can take your plate,” the barmaid chimed in.

“No…” she fidgeted a little bit. “Twenty lunchboxes is what I’m thinking. For the orphaned kids who live at the monastery of Bragi? At the outskirts of Darna? I’ll help you making them. I’m glad I’ve been getting more invitations lately, but with that tight schedule, I’m afraid I won’t have the chance.”

“I see,” the barmaid casually slung a hand over her. “That’s noble, though. When will you need them?”

She scratched her head. “… Tomorrow afternoon so I can take them for dinner? My living compartment is too small for preparing such a feast. The bar’s opening hours will not be disturbed, I promise! I’ll just be here since the morning before you open this place?”

Both the barmaid and the cook gasped.

* * *

 

Regardless of the surprised reaction, the three ladies did come to the bar early in the morning. At first it was the dancer who sailed market aisles with a piece of paper containing shopping list in her hand, earning surprised look from people when she casually procured her purchase. “Eight kilograms of potatoes,” she mentioned, her eyes not leaving the paper she held. “Five kilograms of pork ribs—“

It was only after she was done reciting everything she scribbled on the paper that she realized the sellers had not moved at all from their position. The dancer pouted, speaking in a low tone. She did not expect trouble this early in the morning, and if this was the way for her day to start, then… well, she had to curb the bad mood more, then. “I can pay, you know?!”

“Oh, no, no! W-we don’t mean that, Miss! We know you have no stain under your account, anyway!” the butcher quickly responded as the dancer’s expression turned sour. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” she cut in, getting impatient. Twenty lunchboxes did not take a short time to prepare!

“You are tiny,” the vegetable seller shot her right in the heart. “How are you going to carry them?”

“Why, you people are such height demons—hnnn! W-well…” the dancer glanced at her list again, biting her lips, feeling so nervous out of a sudden. “R-right! Gods, I didn’t think of this!! I should have made an appointment with a carriage to take me!” she slapped her forehead. “Or… oooh, I know! I can ride in yours… um, I hope?”

The butcher gave her a regretful look. “If only that was the case, Miss. I just sent my son home to help with his mother’s shop back home.”

“Right, right. My delivery was just done,” the vegetable seller added. “Sorry about that, young lady. It’s not that we don’t want to take your purchase, we’re genuinely wondering…”

“… I can do it.”

Everyone was startled when he traced the aisle casually. As always his arrival turned heads and held breaths—under soft morning sun his hair shone brilliantly, and the morning Black Knight appeared much more harmless than the nightly one because usually he ventured the market in a day dress instead of unsettling all-black everything he wore as he rode to the battles. He might still have the Demon Sword by his waist, but chances were there would be no cape, no body armor, and his gloves were typical leather, brown gloves instead of the sturdy and thick black ones he would don when he was ready for combat. And that morning the Black Knight appeared to be more relaxed somehow. His shirt was a short-sleeved one in light-blue color, topped with red velvet scarf he rolled around him to withstand breeze as he mounted. With such appearance nobody would have guessed it was the fearsome swordsman everyone had been talking about, because at this rate he looked like a farmer boy more than a deadly warrior.

She giggled softly, however.

“You are a horizon…”

He coughed. And she quickly ran to him, finding it strange for he could not speak and his cheeks flamed.

“Ares! What happened?!”

“… Nothing…”

“Were you embarrassed? Oooh gods—but really, though! You have blond hair and your shirt is blue.”

“… Your voice was soft.”

“… That sent you floating away?”

“And you giggled.”

“… You hate my laughter?”

“What? No.”

“… All your black clothing got dirty or what?”

“I have dozens.”

“… Then you hate meeting me at the market today?”

“Huh? Again, no.”

Kneeling, he was about to crouch to pick himself off the ground. The sun shifted that it shone on her instead, giving an impression of a halo framing her head.

He cleared his throat again as she smiled, descending…

“I’ll give you a hand?”

He took it. While he was minding his weight and power as to not pull her down with him, such vacuum of action made their hands touch longer than he planned. He stared at her; akin to someone who got caught off guard for behaving unexpectedly. And her hand was still in his…

“It’s alright!” her cheery tone remained unchanged like it did not bother her at all even though he latched his fingers onto hers for a little while now. “Why, you’re like a knight in accolade.”

… He pursed his lips.

“… Or perhaps a faithful devotee?”

“Devotee?” she frowned before letting out another soft, cute laughter. “Of what, Ares, meow~?”

“… Rabbits?” he chuckled, receiving her fist on his cheek. “Either way, I’ll take you.”

“This is funny,” she spoke lightly, walking side-by-side with him. “When they made me realize I’ve come with a giant shopping plan without any means to take the purchase, I prayed for help.”

“I guess kind people’s prayers go through.”

“But those who stopped to help others are kinder, don’t you think~?” she winked at him.

“… Probably.”

“Then you are kinder!”

“… Probably not.”

“Theeere, sulking like a cat again. These days I won’t be surprised if you grow whiskers.”

“I’m not a cat.”

“Sigh, this again. Alright, lion cub…”

“That’s better.”

“Lions have whiskers too, you know?”

“… Rabbits technically have them as well.”

“Insolent, I have no mustache.”

“Impudent, I’m not kind.”

“… That’s your main argument?”

“Well, I can cultivate a mustache.”

“See, that proves you are a kitty,” she kept chuckling. “But is it really alright for you? I mean, you have your purchase and mine will be heavy…”

“This boy is a warhorse. He can take it. A horse can carry up to thirty percent of its weight, you see,” Ares brushed the mane of his mustang with his fingers. “And I only got myself meat today. I’ll drop you at the bar and return to my compound after.”

“Oh, alright…” with a fresh idea in mind, she suddenly clasped her hand. “You should drop by later! Do you have mission now? Um—can you drop by if you are going to ride nightly again?”

“Me?”

“Yes! This way I can fix you something to thank you!” she nodded enthusiastically. “Hehehe. Basically kids meal is just the same with what we eat, isn’t it? And of course I’ll give you a lion’s serving…”

“No.”

“Hnnn. You didn’t eat with me lately—oooh, gasp—you don’t really like my food?”

“… Quit assuming things, rabbit.”

“Then talk like a plant instead of glaring like a sulky cat.”

“… Talk like a… plant?”

“A plant is cute.”

“… Cute?”

“If I said you are cute, then you will be in denial forever and fencing me!”

“… Fencing you? No, on my honor I will not engage you in a fight.”

“Gods, Ares!”

“… Yes?”

“You are always like that…” she giggled back and forth. “I guess it can’t be helped. How about this—can I hire you? This way you have to come because then I will be your client.”

“… Lene, I’m not picking fights with children. Your destination is an orphanage—ouch…”

“Good. Now that you shut up, I can talk,” she feigned a death stare at him. “And remember, your beautiful hair is my hostage.”

“… Beautiful hair?”

“Hnnn, why do you always need to repeat everything I said—oh, okay. You are like _that,_ anyway, so be it! Yes, yes! Repeat everything I say then, you will lose…” with a mischievous, mischievous _devilish_ smile she looked at him, twirling the hair strands she just caught. “Come to the bar…”

“… Come to the bar?”

“Yes!”

“… Yes?”

“Yaaay, you agree!”

“… I agree?”

“You dooo! Hehehe, I know this is going to work~!” she laughed. “I want to hire you as my carrier…”

“… Hiring me?”

“And I’ll pay!”

“… You will what now?”

“Yes! Let’s see… how much should I pay considering you only need to help me loading and carrying these? Oh, right, minus free lunch as well and we will be back shortly after distributing the meals. Minus danger if you will kindly overlook your disaster of a fashion choice… minus enemies to fight… right, don’t kill spiders too unless they _jump_ at my face… but I pray they won’t because it sounds horrible…”

He stared as she comically mumbled everything. His eyes shifted, slowly lighting up the way cold plains tasted the first sun of spring. “… Alright, I understand. I’ll drop by.”

“Yay again~! Aaah, thank you so much!!” she giggled, ticking his nose. “And how much should I pay?”

He paused again. Those normally-fiery copper eyes lighted up brighter, and she could hear his answer as he helped her mounting.

“… Bread.”

* * *

 

He arrived as he said he would.

The bar was still closed, but a tame knock he landed on the sealed door quickly met her face welcoming him at the threshold. “Oooh, you really came!”

Her tone was cheerful although he could see that they were working hard inside—she wore her hair into a bun, her fringes messily swirled framing her face while her bangs glistened with sweat.

“Still busy?” he spared a kind look, feeling peaceful somehow. The thought of her insisting to feed kids and did not just sit idly despite paying the bar for the meal boxes she planned nearly made him to crack a smile, an urge which he halted fearing she might mistake it as mockery.

And he swore he had nothing but pure respect at the moment.

She sealed the door again once he was completely inside. They were putting the last touch for the meals before taking a break. The cook nodded at him to acknowledge his arrival while the barmaid smirked a little.

“Lene paid us but she works the hardest.”

“Well, you both will still need to run the bar after this,” the dancer reasoned. “Ah, Ares… do you have mission after this?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she mumbled. “I just wanted to make sure I did not take your time or hinder you.”

“Aren’t you my client for today?” he responded, and she could have sworn, sworn in her mother’s name that she thought she saw star glinting in his eyes. Perhaps lion cubs had their own way to wink…

“She is—your client?” one of the waiters—Aldo—who just arrived to start cleaning gasped.

“Right. Mess with her, I bury you.”

“Don’t joke like that with a straight face!”

“Joke?”

“S-Sir Black Knight…”

“Ares,” she huffed, using her trademark lion tamer tone on him, earning his chuckles.

“So what should I do today?” he took a seat, rather amused by everything.

“Ah, right. Eating your share,” she winked at him, seating a plate with generous serving of everything she would put in the meal boxes. “I’ve set this aside firsthand right after the batch was done. Go on~!”

“Such a generous host,” he remarked, feeling so tempted by what he saw on the plate, imagining how filling her meal boxes for the kids would be, how tempting everything was considering the mashed potatoes were thick and savory. She had put baked fritters with meat stuffing on the plate, and he was probably way too happy than he would be willing to admit upon finding her grilled sausages he loved with all his soul were there.

“If I’m going to feed a lion, might as well make a leonine platter,” she chuckled. Seeing where his eyes landed, her chuckles grew merrier, rolling three more of the sausages for him. “How brazen of you thinking I did not know.”

“I guess a goddess oversees everything.”

“… What?”

“What?” he cocked an eyebrow, looking so pleased after banishing four of those sausages to this realm called his stomach. “But really, Lene, I’ll help you.”

“Oh you will, alright~! There will be a time for that, so for now, enjoy your food?”

He could not argue with her as always. Used to a disciplined military life he did not take long to eat and settle, ready as always like a garrison sentry anticipating a skirmish anytime. But this time there was no skirmish. This time he would just be riding with her… peacefully, and his concern would just be about loading her meal boxes and carefully carried them so the contents did not spill.

He helped the ladies boxing everything, with her leaving him to get ready. Knowing he was waiting the dancer quickly did her hair, wiping traces of tiring work, giving him a sight of a beautiful Lene in light blue dress she topped with the typical pink outer layer she would lace behind her back. Patting her head to check her ponytail, she giggled at him.

“Come to think of it, our clothes kind of match!”

“… Ah,” he looked down. He only put a dark brown coat, of similar tone with his gloves over his short-sleeved blue shirt like what he wore to the market.

“I should have brought my soft pink ribbon had I known you would wear those,” she grumbled. “If I braid you again with it then we will be like, truly matching.”

“The gods heard my prayer,” he jested, earning a poke from her.

“I’m surprised you did not show up in black,” the cook commented innocently.

He paused, setting down the lemonade he was about to drink. “… She is visiting an orphanage,” minutes felt like forever until he answered. “There will be children around and it is still early.”

“… Are you saying you dressed like that for me then?” the dancer’s eyes glinted. “Seee~!! Whyyy, Ares, meow, you are sooo kind! Hehehe, kind people are blessed with the protection of the gods, you know?”

“Is that so?”

“You’re going to laugh at me again, aren’t you.”

“… No,” he replied in a gentle manner. “If that is the case, I’m glad.”

“Hnnn? Ahhh, you have to be~! After all, your missions are dangerous, and…”

“I don’t mean me.”

The barmaid whistled and he cleared his throat… again.

“You see, Sir Black Knight, perhaps it’s best if you two are on your way if you want to arrive on time,” she swayed closer. “And we are paid, anyway, so get out before it’s nearing sunset, Lene.”

“Oh, but you still need to clean…”

“Shush you, it’s alright. Come on,” the cook smirked at the waiter, “besides, Aldo is here. What is the purpose of having a male coworker if not to be enslaved?”

“At least you are honest,” the waiter scoffed, prompting everyone to laugh.

With all the merry send-off, Lene and Ares found themselves at the road again, and his cheeks flared when she looked at him in such admiring manner when he tethered her load onto his mount. When she looked like she was about to say something, he quickly stopped her.

“It’s common. I didn’t do something great.”

“You think I’m looking at your muscles, huh.”

“… W-were you?”

“Awh, you are awkward. Cuter than a kitten,” giggling, she yanked his mullet from behind his back because she was his passenger for the day. “Actually, first and foremost it was because you are so kind.”

“That again,” he responded, dictating his mount to race the road. “Dare I ask the second-most then?”

At that time, she found it hard to reply.

“Lene?”

“Ah… y-yes! I’m still here, you know?! I can’t hop off just like that, d-don’t worry!”

“Now you sound awkward.”

“Since when did you Human again, Ares.”

“… Hmmm.”

“N-not giving up this time?”

“Suspicious. You should be capable, as a rabbit.”

“Do you want us to get to the orphanage safely or _die_ here bald because I’ll rip your mullet?”

“… Understood.”

Chatters and jokes made the whole journey feel like a heartbeat because they arrived at the outskirt of Darna without feeling like they had been riding for hours. Immediately, she spotted the monastery; lone erected around a peaceful forestry area, barricaded by natural fortress that was trees and bushes. A conjoined building with a red rooftop could be seen peeking behind it, and for a moment she only looked at the buildings in a solemn manner.

He dismounted. Holding the rein, he gave her a hand.

“What’s the matter?” he asked when she did not take it, looking pensive and a bit nervous.

“I…”

“Yes?” he held the rein still, alert as always in case the mount noticed its master was no longer on top.

“… Can I occupy your horse… for a couple of minutes more?” she murmured. “I’ve been wanting to be here to give back, but…”

“Sure. I don’t really ask questions to a client.”

He waited as she inhaled, closing her eyes like summoning her composure, taming whatever it was residing in her mind giving her anxiety. He still held the rein like an obedient soldier stationed for a guard duty, and there were around some solid two minutes or more until she opened her eyes again, nodding slowly. “I’m ready…”

He did not say anything but took her by the waist to help her dismounting. In silence he released the sacks which carried her meal boxes, slinging both over his shoulders. This time he tailed her from behind as always instead of walking with her.

“Lene?”

She tilted her head. And he saw it—the way she toned down her doubt, replacing it with a familiar cheery smile as she would always. “Why, Ares, I’ll help you if they are heavy~!”

“Know that I’m always here if anything happens,” he dragged his footsteps closer without making a sound. “I mean—my steps don’t make much sound, but I want you to know that I’m here with you.”

“Of course,” she smiled at him, exhaling… and eventually knocked on the door.

An elderly priest slowly opened the door. A tempered smile reigned on his face, and Ares kicked the tip of a sheathed Mystletainn to make it more concealed from plain sight. “Can I help you, my child?” the priest asked gently, moving a little bit like he anticipated her to get inside the orphanage.

“I come here for…” she could only gesture at Ares, who stepped forward like assuming the role to be the rock while she dwindled. The warrior set the sacks he carried, untying them to show to the priest. “… The kids,” her tone was meek when she found her voice back. “I hope they’ll love my food tonight.”

The priest looked bemused—undoubtedly, for his eyebrows dove as his hand clasped his chin. “Why, that is very kind of you, my children—but may I know to what do I owe these for?”

“… No, Father. They are hers and I’m merely her handyman here,” Ares quickly retorted. “I don’t mean to start a debate—it’s just I’d like the lady to be recognized where the credit is due.”

The priest chuckled. “Blunt aren’t you, my son. Very well—first of all, Miss, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” he smiled at the dancer. “My apologies if I sounded cold prior, but it truly has been a while since people dropped by with such amount of donation; let alone packed, ready-to-eat meals.”

“I… presume life is still hard even after winter, Father?” the dancer asked as she traced the building with her eyes. Those bright green discs then returned to the ground under them; a shifting demeanor which did not escape the lion cub’s sharp, alert fiery eyes.

“We manage,” the priest smiled kindly. “I’ll do anything for the kids as long as I’m here. After all, I believe Lord Bragi’s spirit will always be with us.”

“Bragi…” Ares whispered. “This is a church of Bragi?”

“First time?”

He could only nod. No way he would say more—his church experiences so far often consisted of smoking them to weed ambushing opposing soldiers out, sometimes holding clerics at blade point to heal him when his opponents managed to crowd him, twenty against one.

“Father, I—am—a dancer,” Lene squeaked a little. “Spring has blessed me with fortune and I just want to share…”

“That is noble, my child.”

“Therefore,” she gestured at the sacks. “I hope you can accept my little gifts here.”

“You have done a lot in one visit compared to people who preach and point,” the priest smiled reassuringly. “I humbly thank you very much, Miss. May Bragi’s light illuminate your path always.”

She curtsied to him, letting him make a blessing touch as his hand landed on her head. The old priest did not say much when Ares merely stood still, looking unsure how to approach if not contemplating the whole scene unfolding before him.

“And you too,” the priest smiled at the warrior. “May you always be protected, Sir Knight.”

He gasped.

“Old eyes see a lot even after this body is no longer strong enough to do much,” the priest chuckled. “Those eyes are too ferocious for someone of your age.”

“… I did not want to scare the kids,” Ares could only respond dismissively, although with great relief he let his cape billow this time, giving the priest a sneak peek of Mystletainn.

“Exactly why I wish for Lord Bragi’s protection onto thee.”

“… I see. Well, sorry to be crude, Father, it’s been a long, long while since someone even prayed for me, so…” Ares shrugged, bowing a little bit. “If she is ready to take her leave, so shall I.”

“It’s alright, my child,” the priest nodded, melancholy was clear in his face then. “… Life does that.”

“… Father?” Lene caught up to the priest before the doors were closed again. “Did someone ever come to visit? A dancer, mayhaps? … A lady dancer—a lady dancer with green hair like mine?”

The priest pondered a bit. “I wish I could help, Miss, sadly I cannot.”

“I understand,” the dancer whispered. “I’m—sorry for troubling, Father.”

“You aren’t, dear child.”

The door was closed again, and Ares faithfully followed her as she took her leave. Suddenly the dancer stopped, running her heel over a certain grassy location just near the chapel. And unexpected to him, she threw her hands upwards—dancing…

“Can you make some music for me?” she whispered. “… Please?”

He clapped his hands in a rhythmic manner and she followed the beats with her movements. Feeling like it was enough she stopped, prompting him to end his serenading her as well. Tilting her head, she caught him off guard—again—because this time she cheerfully smiled at him.

“That kind of made me feel better!”

“I’m glad,” he replied sincerely.

She hummed, and he still tailed behind her until they were close to the chapel. “… Ares?”

“Is the door heavy to push?” he asked, but already held it open anyway.

She shook her head with a sad smile. “… I grew up here. I'm a self-taught dancer.”

That practically earned instant, sympathetic understanding silence from the warrior. “… I see.”

“I think back then I told you a little bit about me,” the dancer continued. “My mother was… is… gods, I don’t know—a dancer like me. She left me in Darna, at that very orphanage. The priest probably did not recognize me…” she touched her bracelet, clutching it to her chest. “… It’s the only thing I have of her.”

“Not really.”

“… No?”

“… You,” he made a gesture. “She left us with you.”

She chuckled. “You are too kind.”

“I’m merely stating a fact.”

“Then like your father, I suppose?” she smiled. “I still remember you told me he was tall, blond, and strong. Sounds very much like you!”

“… No. He was a knight while I am not. An honorable man to the very end while I…” Ares touched Mystletainn. “Would you believe me if I said this sword kind of feels as cool as the breeze when…”

_… When you are around?_

_Oh, Your Royal Highness.  
Who would have thought you are this interesting fellow._

_Are you mocking me, Mystletainn?_

_I should be complaining because lately you spared more than you preyed.  
However, though…_

“Why, Ares, brooding again. I should be the one that is sad,” she pinched his nose. “Well, we are at a holy ground. Perhaps that’s why?”

_Not really. You would not want to know what I did during those night rides. Terrains meant nothing to me as long as this sword is out for a hunt. It’s been like that lately. So cool instead of this cold, cold sensation each time I had to unsheathe it to hunt my preys. The way bloodstains feel after they dry._

“Probably.”

_Prince Ares, you have the capability to harness great, great power.  
I assist you, milord; so had your heart been black and cruel—_

_I’m no Lionheart, Mystletainn._

_Do you think I’m called the Demon Sword because I’m evil?  
Tell me, Prince Ares, was Hezul evil?_

_Why are you bothering me in Bragi’s compound?_

_Strength needs temperance, Your Royal Highness.  
The way Hezul relied on Bragi for guidance—_

_I’m not murdering anyone today—is this why you WRITHE?_

_Was the Lionheart a bloodthirsty murderer, milord?_

_… The hell? Sure not. You know better._

_Exactly._

_Mystletainn…_

_Bloodlust alone will never be enough to harness me.  
Think, milord, moments when you felt most powerful._

_Feh. Like when I tore some murderer’s ligaments for holding her hostage, you mean?_

_Or when you broke a silver sword in one strike because she was kidnapped._

_Yeah? And?_

_… Hahaha. Your Royal Highness—you are so cute._

_You are not her. Do not._

_Milord, had both you and the Lionheart thirsted for power alone, my true power would not be there.  
Powerful that I am I only feed on the deserving… _

_Meaning?_

“You are still brooding!” he gasped when she yanked his mullet. “Are you hungry again?”

“I’m not a glutton, you know…”

“Now you sulk! You are so cute,” the dancer giggled. “Really though, it’s alright! Who doesn’t like food?”

“… Hmmm.”

“I’ve been thinking of something.”

“Yeah?”

“You kept saying that—no knight you said…” she started. “But you know what, you are, though! I mean, you said it yourself, you are not killing people for fun, Ares! Doesn’t that make you… noble?”

_Haha, no wonder you don’t talk to me anymore._

_Oi, don’t go._

_I'm done here, Prince Ares._

“I don’t understand,” he scratched his head. “I’m surprised you haven’t called me dumb now.”

“Because you are so kind, that isn’t dumb.”

_Well, Your Royal Highness?  
I’m going back to sleep. You’re not fighting today, anyway._

“I don’t…” he wanted to argue again, but ceased his intention. “You better explain it to me.”

“You met your opponents because of the circumstances which bound you to,” she spoke in a gentle manner. “You never actively sought them. I mean—gods, your first reaction is concealing your sword under broad daylight.”

“That’s normal.”

“Not for some people,” she smiled. “That means… that means you are honorable, no? If your father was a paragon who left you with an heirloom and so far you are undefeatable wielding it, doesn’t that mean…”

“My father’s legacy lives in me by his name only, Lene.”

“Hnnn. Nooo. That means only the chivalrous could harness the sword’s potential? Rich from someone who can even barely fight,” she pouted, more to herself than him. “I was just thinking, you know—because you are chivalrous! Why, hehe, you just glared at a priest to acknowledge me~!”

“… That is chivalrous?”

“If so?”

“… This is getting more confusing.”

“Don’t be confused!”

“I imagine holy ground to be eye-opening, Lene, not confusing!”

“Well, you asked questions. Aren’t you enlightened?” she winked at him, taking him inside the chapel.

“I guess…” he followed suit regardless, letting her dragging him like that.

He watched as she knelt inside, clasping her hands like conveying her wish in the most sincere manner possible… and he stood still on guard, feeling so at peace. He did not mind the minutes until she got back to him, smiling even more tenderly than prior… “Done.”

“What did you wish for?” he asked out of curiosity… somehow.

“… For my mother to come back and for you to always return safely~!”

“She will and I’ll try not to make you worried.”

“… You are sweet.”

“I told you I believe a kind person’s prayer goes through.”

“Then the gods will heed you because you are kinder.”

“If that is the case…”

She looked at him. She looked at him releasing his belt which tethered Mystletainn to his waist. She watched him prostrating, crouching with the sword being held downwards in his clasped hands. She watched him solemnly bowing, deeply that his forehead could touch the inner sides of his sword. She watched him closing his eyes, dissolving into a moment of blissful silence that had passerby did not see his face, no way they would recognize that it was the Black Knight having a moment of contemplation…

She patiently waited for him to finish. He got up, putting his belt back on, patting Mystletainn to fix it on him. “… I’ve never done this before,” he muttered. “My family… my father especially, venerated Hezul.”

"Ah, so that’s why you are a Hezul fan,” she patted his arm. “What did you pray for again~?”

“Strength?”

“As expected, huh?” she feigned to be annoyed—pouting at him, again, while her eyes lighted up. “Really, more strength? Next time you and your horse will be interchangeable.”

That successfully made him laugh. “This time I want more so I can protect.”

“… Oh…”

“I told you I’ve never done this before,” he muttered sheepishly.

“See, knightly.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Did I?”

“… Lene.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you said, Ares, meow.”

“… But lions do not meow?”

“Mine does!”

“… Do I?”

“Hnnn? What makes you assume you are my lion?”

“I—I see.”

“Why did you look so taken aback like that~?”

“… Nothing… by Hezul, you are formidable…”

This time she tailed him from behind, feeling amazed by what they just experienced. Running her fingers on his mount, she laughed, patting the traveling satchel he always carried while mounted. “Now the good boy can rest because we have taken its burden.”

“Yes. Mission accomplished,” he smirked.

“So I’m no longer your client,” she chuckled. “I keep your bread at the backstage.”

“I’ll make sure whoever individual laying a hand on it dies.”

“… Ares.”

“That’s a joke, you know?”

“With such straight face, who can tell?” she sighed. “Well! Now that I’m no longer your client, I guess we part ways here?”

“Such a brazen suggestion.”

“H-huh? What… ah!” she squealed out of reflex when he suddenly hoisted her up. “Gods! I’ll bake another bread then—one for your stomach, another your face.”

“How generous.”

“Hnnn!” she yanked his mullet again, to his tender chuckles. “Ares!”

“Yes, Miss Client?”

“Ares—seriously, you’re not going to… mount?”

“No?”

“N-no?”

“I’m walking.”

“Walking—with me on your horse?” she gasped.

“Yeah?”

“L-like a knight?!”

“To a lady? Yeah?”

“But I’m no longer your client because the mission is done!”

“Bold of you to assume I did this to my clients.”


	28. Obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh my God I'm so sincerely sorry this turns out to be longer than I expected, suddenly I got the idea to try using different perspectives for this prompt. Also, little by little the dancer gets to uncover the lion cub's background and... hashtag foreshadowing perhaps. Again I'm so sorry OTL

“I presume you are the Black Knight?”

He heard those words often. Sometimes some people offered themselves even before his contract eventually connected them together. And lately he chose to not respond. Unnecessary murder, he would say. When Javarro said it was wise because—hey, he was not even being paid for that fight!—he found himself rather keep his mouth shut afterwards.

He wondered why it did not feel right lately, though. Prior to this he hardly even thought anything, but recently not only that he began to question the people who signed their own death warrant by approaching him like that—worse than everything, perhaps, he started to feel.

Admittedly he did not like being approached like that.

Simply giving a peek from the corner of his eyes, he sat in still silence, poking the delicious melted cheese sandwich slices the barkeep had fixed for him.

“I want to fight you,” the uninvited guest hissed at him.

He sighed softly without even acknowledging the other man’s presence. Bringing the knife to cut his sandwiches, there was this ominous sensation he felt around his hands—they itched. He figured it was because he was so used to fighting, to hold a weapon, to have an unsheathed sword ready that he felt odd when his hand was idle like that. Was it insecurity because this uninvited guest had clearly come at him with the intent to harm? Was it his own sudden impression of helplessness because the other man hovered around him while he was eating?

 _A person is most vulnerable under three conditions—when asleep, eating, or in the bathroom,_ those warfare manuals would say. He had long understood that it was the case even before he heard those… wise words from Javarro or anyone else; he had taken advantage of the those situations a couple of times.

He would be more than willing to engage people fair and square, had they come to him for a one-on-one challenge. However often times mission and effectiveness of warfare demanded other things, and in such situation he could only control what came up to him directly, in-person; the way he refused to use female prisoner of wars offered to him and chose to free them all.

“I’m speaking to you,” the uninvited guest hissed again.

He chewed his sandwich, frowning in the process.

_… This tastes like blood…_

Gasping, he took a good look at his sandwich.

… No, they were still sandwiches. Normal food, with triangle-cut breads and melted cheese, with savory spiced smoked beef cuts just the way he liked it.

 _Perhaps I’m imagining things,_ he thought, licking the melted cheese as if ensuring himself that it wasn’t blood he just had. Was it because he ate her blood-stained bread the other day? That would be rather ridiculous—one did not just develop a taste for blood like that. If conditioned, perhaps…

_Conditioned._

The word rang in his head, giving him confusion. Conditioned like what? He was a ravenous predator, called to hunt and kill. There sure was no other way, Mystletainn signed his opponents’ death warrant the moment they marked him. Again, he did not take delight in doing these things. Should that mean…

He could hear the door being opened. Cheery voices followed soon afterwards. He did not need to look to know that it was none other than the famed dancer of Darna—Lene.

She strolled in inside the bar. Her steps were vivacious and light as always, and looking at her smiling to basically everyone she met along the way like that somehow tempted him to do the same. Back then he questioned why it was even a thing, feeling tempted to smile just because she did. But then again back then he hardly even thought, let alone felt.

All back then and what if aside, there he was, nearly looked around to acknowledge her presence with his eyes… if only that uninvited guest would just concede. “Didn’t you hear me?” the stranger spoke again with back arched forward, tapping him on the shoulder.

He jolted.

All his battle-hardened reflexes screamed to be unleashed, telling him to unsheathe Mystletainn in a heartbeat and bury its tip in the stranger’s audacious chest which invaded his personal space. He tried to exhale… inhale… exhale… until the idea of blood rain slowly dissipated from his mind. Soft snicker escaped his throat recalling Javarro’s cynical response to his concern, and all of a sudden he felt so ironic for silently agreeing with Javarro, now of all other times.

The stranger caught it, however. “I’ll wipe it off clean, blonde.”

He looked at the stranger from behind his shoulders, making a quick appraisal just like he did to all his potential opponents. A mature man older than he was, plump and muscular; the staggered footsteps, the not-so-subtle way to invade his personal space, the crystal-clear announcement of his arrival… oh, right, the callouses on his palm, just above the wrist.

 _Axe-wielder,_ he noted. And he could already picture how the fight would go on. What he did not know, however, whether it would take ten seconds or more to take this person down. Some people were powerful, moving like they were used to carry a heavy load. But often times it came with a price, the way their speed suffered either by neglecting leg training or because the heavy weapon already demanded full attention.

“You are too close,” he growled. His voice was deep and low, conveying a silent death threat.

“How else am I going to _ruin_ you,” the stranger smirked. “Draw your sword already.”

“I’m eating,” he returned his attention to his sandwiches, feeling so foul of all a sudden. No longer was the food appealing, but he just wanted it to be over. There was no need to engage this stranger, he thought simply, and suddenly Mystletainn’s silky impression got through his mind.

_Lately you spared more than you preyed._

He patted his sword. The stranger immediately went alert, but he simply shook his head, brushing his fingertips against the hilt of his sword. For a moment he recalled the time he spent at the orphanage, at the compound of church of Bragi.

_I know you weren’t actually complaining…_

His fingertips stayed on Mystletainn for a moment longer. Somehow everything started to slowly drown him, for he pictured the image of the Lionheart with the blade hanging on his waist. Strong, strong and dashing Lionheart, whose name he defiled yet whose legacy he carried… in the sword.

_… He did that too before he marched to—  
—Forget that milord; you won’t like it._

_I can’t even if I want to._

_You can’t deny me.  
It’s in your blood._

_I can’t even choose anyway._

What would his father do when confronted by someone who was clearly not someone of his caliber? They called him these names—both the noble ones and the defiled ones after that fateful day when he was supposed to collide with… _him._ That wretched lordling who took everything away from him, he who drove his mother to be widowed. The graying sky, remnant of heavy rainfall—the day the Lionheart’s order was final and clear.

_Cross knights! You are to ride with Her Ladyship and the future of my throne to Leonster. Do not stop until you reach your destination; protect them the way you would sacrifice your lives for me._

_You lied, Father,_ he chuckled bitterly. _You have always been that odd nobleman—you put your life on the front so nobody had to sacrifice theirs for you._

A wild thought emerged in his mind then—perhaps if he hugged the Lionheart longer… tighter… there would not be days when he felt rather suffocated, having to swing this sword. The sword which was not even his, and there he was, swinging it against people he did not even choose to fight, the battles he had no voice to decide. How did his father handle them? At least before one eventually cost him his life, then there had to be… something. His father was dashing, attracting the masses and probably haters. As a child he heard that often—a knight protected the feeble, devoted to a master.

Well, if the contract was not there, then perhaps…

“I’m eating, I said. Go away,” he finally spoke.

“Really, blonde?” the stranger scoffed. With a powerful blow he slapped the plate off the table. The porcelain was thrown across the room, slamming hard against the wall and shattered into pieces.

What happened just now practically caught everyone’s attention at an instant. His companion dancer stopped talking, smile slowly vanished from her face as her laughter began to dissipate.

And then he felt it again—people’s eyes on him, their whispers, their careful murmurs with some already looked like they were ready for a flight while some were eager to watch. He did not understand, even if he wanted to say so himself—these people’s… fixation on him. He could see why power attracted a crowd, but even with that in mind, it was not like what he did or would do was glorious. It would be bloody, unsettling, and definitely graver than typical public fights where people crowded to cheer.

He caught her worried look from the corner, which tempted him to purse his lips again somehow. Just recently he prostrated at a church of Bragi beseeching the gods for strength because he wanted to… protect, he said. Yet it seemed he was the one being protected again—

“What’s so funny?”

He bit back a growl, ignoring his self-proclaimed challenger yet again as he walked up to the counter. “Uncle Barkeep, I’d like to replace the plate.”

“… You must be kidding,” his challenger grunted, looking so appalled that it was clear the so-called Black Knight appeared of wanting to walk away like that.

“I don’t joke to a joke,” his response came out sharply, befitting the look he wore at the moment. “Kidding is my entertaining an invitation to an unnecessary fight. Leave.”

“And you think I’d let you?”

He stopped walking. The stranger threw himself in front of him, barricading him from approaching the counter. He sighed. This too was not a new experience; he could count with his fingers for another person to _not_ come up to him to ask the very same question again and again— _Are you the Black Knight?_

“You will,” he replied gruffly, bidding his time as his gloved hand reflexively felt the Mystletainn. It was still there, of course. And he could smell the blood early—it would only take one swift strike and this self-proclaimed challenger would not even realize what just hit him.

“Then make me.”

He sighed again, probably louder than prior. So he could not choose, anyway. Like the name he wore in his person. The legacy he carried. His trusted weapon-companion, even—

He felt it, the adrenaline rush. And he knew he could not deny it—it was in his blood, just as what Mystletainn tried conveying to him. He was a warrior; the blood of Crusader Hezul in his vein blessed him with strength while the sword hanging on his belt disposed people at his command.

“I won’t even need my sword,” he stepped forward, clenching his fist. He did not choose his battles—right. But would that mean he could not choose to have a normal meal time as well?

The stranger gleamed at him, and he could see everything in the eyes—someone who tried marking him like he was this exotic animal whose head would make a fine hunting trophy over a warm fireplace. That look was not new to him either; if anything, he barely recognized any other look—while he either preyed or spared, people did not even give him the ‘spare’ option. Like what he told his companion dancer back then, either they wanted to kill him, or wanted him to kill.

He was ready. The rush was in his chest, the way his veins figuratively snapped open the moment a prospect of a fight came to him. And that moment he would be alert, vicious, vanquishing the threat even before it could get close to him. And this stranger was a dead man walking.

People murmured and whispered. Some kicked off the chairs, either to flee or make a room for the fight. That should reduce the risk of damaged furniture, but at the same time he wished it wasn’t the case. Either way a fight would break inside, when the day was still light, under everyone’s bare eyes…

“I’ve been wanting to fight you,” his challenger barked, looking so pleased like that. “You better get ready, blonde, standing still like that will get your pretty face ruined.”

He stared still.

**_M_** _y cub, in a fight one must be focused. Do not ever take your opponent lightly; gloating is dishonorable._

_Eldie, he is too young to learn that yet **!**_

**_H_** _aha, it’s alright, Grahnye—a boy is born, but a knight is made._

He closed his eyes. Made? He was a warrior now, perfectly fit, trained, and capable. He was a strong warrior, a formidable killer, and even without Mystletainn, he still could fend for himself fairly well with his knuckles. Or anything he could seize to wield as a weapon.

He pictured the Lionheart might just take a hit or two and walked away.

 _I’m no knight, Father._ He shook his head then. “I guess there’s no other way.”

“Good! What are you waiting for?!” the stranger slammed his fists altogether.

“You,” he said flatly. “If I start, that will be oppressing the weak.”

“Conceited bastard!”

He chuckled cynically. Conceited? He did not even want this meaningless fight. Damn if he answered, damn if he did not—either way he was still a beast… oh, right, a conceited beast. So he got in position, waiting. Just like other days where he would, with people giving him death threats and luring him into a contest of strength.

He waited. Waited… until something snatched his arm from behind.

He blinked. Right when he was about to start a fight? His reflexes would have done a beautiful headlock followed by a thrust if something did not catch his attention first.

“Hello, Ares~! I’ve paid the broken plate, let’s go home?”

He blinked again. Lene clung onto him, her own arm tightly wrapped around his. As always she wore that delightful expression on her, with the familiar warm smile and cheerful tone he would have recognized from a distance. “Ah…”

“That’s right~! I’ve settled it with Uncle Barkeep behind the counter. Come on~ let’s go home?”

“Oh…”

“Right? I left my sword at home.”

That alone was enough to make him follow. “… I suppose,” he contemplated, not even batting an eye to the challenging stranger, who appeared bewildered.

“Hey!”

And he marveled at the dancer. Before he knew it, the dancer put her body between them both, staring _down_ at the stranger with an angry yet dignified look like he was nothing but a pebble on the road, unworthy of a coherent response. “Hey, you said? No—you shut up!”

Everyone gasped.

“It should be clear that he doesn’t want to fight you,” the dancer huffed. “So take it and leave already! You pushed him because of his prowess, but watch what that mouth says if he wins.”

“What?!”

“Or is that what you actually want? To drive him away that you can gloat the Black Knight did not want to fight you—therefore he must be scared?”

“Oi, lady—“

“Whichever it is, he does not want to fight you. So grow up and stop bothering people when they are eating, you weirdo!!” she said it straight at his face, fuming with anger.

“W-what did you call me?”

“Weirdo? My apologies—you did not even pay for the plate you broke! Aren’t you an entitled _little shit_ without self-awareness at all that you got rejected, perhaps for your own good! I swear, you people are so _obsessed_ with him that you won’t even let him to just… be.”

Everyone gasped again in unison, but the dancer merely turned around with her hands on her hips, oblivious to the adoring and gulping stares alike. Meanwhile the challenging stranger could only stare dumbfounded that he had no other choice besides dragging himself out, with his tail between his legs.

“Are you alright?” the dancer turned at the warrior. “… Why are you smiling?”

“… Nothing,” the warrior chuckled with such tenderness in his eyes. “Thank you for protecting me.”

“Protecting…” the dancer pondered a little before exploding into a gasp. “Oh—gods! Right, I stole your fight… no, it’s like I challenged him myself! And I didn’t even bring my sword! … G-gods, Ares…”

“It’s alright. If he turned on you then I might be interested in a fight,” he responded lightly.

“N-now you sound deadly.”

“Aren’t I?”

The dancer paused. Seconds later she laughed, dragging the warrior with her, looking so pleased like she reached the conclusion she needed. “If that’s the case, come with me, I have something you can kill!”

“Alright. Need to repay my savior, anyway,” he smirked. “The anticipated spiders from the other day?”

“No,” she gently yanked his mullet. “My sandwiches. You were eating.”

Tongue-tied, he could only shake his head as he paced to follow the dancer.

* * *

 

He sat still on a rock.

As the night began to wear on, he joined other travelers to unwind. Cold breeze flew their way, sweeping the sands off his sturdy military boots. Chatters started brewing as people began exchanging provisions and traveling stories around him.

He was silent, however. When the cold breeze traveled at his direction, he merely tightened the scarf around his upper body to make everything more comfortable. One large suitcase conveniently sat at his feet. Sparing a polite smile to other people who attempted to engage him in conversations, he mostly chewed his packed dinner—still in silence as he stared into a distance.

“Oh, sorry,” someone mumbled, fixing their cloak after accidentally tripping on his boots. The person turned around thinking he heard something colliding against the suitcase, making a clinking sound.

“It’s alright,” he replied simply, still wearing the smile he had been since their caravan stopped for a rest. He had been hiring a carriage, traveling with their entourage for around three days with the suitcase on his back just like many other travelers who banded together in order to cross the Yied.

Hot temperature and the harshness of the desert prompted people flocked together to cross the Jugdrali desert region, either riding in a convoy or hiring Thracian mercenaries to take them on wyvern back. He heard that a couple of times—Thracian wyverns repelled the famed Lanceritter of Leonster, and ever since Thracian mercenaries gained traction and fame as a trusted traveling guard.

He, however, chose to ride in a convoy. Flying made his stomach churn. Wyverns made him…

“Finally you said something. You’ve been with us for these past three days, but as silent as a doll. If you did not move, boy, we would have thought you died.”

“Haha, is that so? I’m too preoccupied by the journey, it seems,” he smiled wryly. “Perhaps I’m rather tired, but do trust me that I’m not sick.”

“Good. The carriage is packed, so don’t throw up on me, it will be disgusting,” the other traveler laughed.

 _… Disgusting._ The word echoed in his mind, and he realized it was the missing piece of a diction he did not find earlier—wyverns were unbearable to watch. And he disliked it. After all these years of traveling around, even the idea of being suggested to ride one alone made him feel uneasy.

He did not say anything else after that. The sky was already dark and he tightened his scarf again when colder wind blew at his face. Soft cough escaped his throat, and his shifting movement prompted his cape to billow at the sides, revealing… something.

“You carry a sword?”

He nearly gasped at the question. Slowly he nodded, fixing his cape to its initial position.

“Traveling is dangerous these days, huh,” the traveler murmured. “I myself keep a dagger too.”

“I won’t fault you, Sir,” he responded flatly. The conversation was a stalemate because neither of them said anything else, and the traveler seemed to catch that he was not in a mood to chat.

He sipped his soup. The liquid warmed him from inside, and for a moment he closed his eyes upon noticing a gate and bridge laying some distance away from where their entourage took a rest. It was there—the hot sandy city of Darna, surrounded by sandy hills and some forestry area. Suddenly mixtures of emotions brewed within him—there was anxiety to some extent, and… anger.

That had to be anger. Suddenly the soup he was sipping felt too hot, way, way too hot compared to prior. It was as if the food took a form of a strong arm, choking him right in the throat, forcing him to gulp, gasping for a breath… he did not know how long he felt so distressed like that until the same traveler from prior patted his back, causing him to cough.

He spat the soup out.

“I—thank you, Sir,” he gasped, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Are you trying to choke yourself to the death by gargling some hot liquid like that?”

“Sorry, I was—miles away,” he looked at Darna again, in an even more pensive manner than prior.

“Well, you wouldn’t make it if you kept doing that,” the traveler scoffed. “Don’t throw away your life like that, boy. That really was a cheap attempt to die.”

He shook his head, smiling sadly. “I’ve returned here at least—I won’t.”

The traveler paused a little. Those eyes were no longer of a teenage boy’s—but akin to a lone wolf in agony. Well, young mercenaries were not a new phenomenon in Darna, anyway. But to be so young and so sad, to be so young to wield a sword—some pups were forced to mature even before they understood the difference between a pup and a wolf. He would have asked for more out of curiosity if something did not startle them both.

… A battle cry.

Fierce battle cries suddenly echoed around the open field, startling the travelers. Rapidly everyone gathered their things, killed the bonfire, and ran to hide behind the caravans. Travelers began to scream in panic when the first dead body with a broken neck was tossed near their rest area. Blood oozed from its orifices. The body held a sword still, marking he died fighting.

“Hide yourselves! Hide yourselves!” desperate voices tried to guide the remaining travelers to a safe place. The lone wolf teenager felt someone tugging on his collar, and he found the traveler from prior tried to grab him to run away.

He shook his head with a flat face. Pushing the traveler behind a rock to shield him, he approached the dead body, to the horror of everyone else. Curiosity got the best of him, but even before he could grab the sword to examine it, suddenly something glistened in the dark, cleaving the sword into two pieces.

He paused.

Under the somber moonlight someone stood tall, unperturbed as he navigated his steps around the people—or rather, bodies—he defeated at ease. They shouted curses and threats at him, and this swordsman calmly answered all the calls with his sword—a menacing curious black blade, devilishly glistened under the refraction of moonlight it reflected.

“T-that’s the Black Knight!”

The lone wolf teenager let out a muffled gasp. Black Knight? He had heard travelers talking about him during the journey. Strongest hired blade in Darna, they said, Death personified; he whose Demon Sword thirsted for the blood of men. The fearsome mercenary whose service people sought, a swordsman renowned for his strength. He who announced his silent arrival through a glimpse of his alluring grotesque charm—tall posture, brilliant golden mane, yet his eyes ferociously marked his opponents like signing their own death warrants himself. He who moved fast and skilled, causing blood to fertilize the soil.

The leonine swordsman traced the ground. Blood dripping from the tip of his sword; his footsteps were long and soundless, a true predator on a hunt. So alert that he was that the moment one of the defeated opponents tried to hurl a rock at him, he already turned around, crushing it with his sword hilt.

The opponent paled.

“I’m sorry!!”

The Black Knight stood still without uttering a word, yet he did not pursue when the defeated lancer ran for his life.

Meanwhile the lone wolf teenager trembled where he crouched. He did not like it—he did not think that after all these years, moving and living in different places… after all these years, for him to be able to go to Darna with a sword hanging on his belt, the moment he encountered the lion, he was petrified.

“Are you the…” he wanted to speak, but the warrior’s sword quickly pointed at his throat even before he could take a breath.

“I am.”

He gulped.

“… Leave,” said the menacing deep voice, clearer than ever. “Hide with everyone else.”

He blinked. “… So you know.”

The mighty warrior merely chuckled sarcastically. A moment later he simply turned around to mount, sheathing his sword back. A handful of sand slapped the lone wolf teenager in the face when the warrior galloped, but he thought he could hear the warrior humming softly, softly, like a sour canticle of destruction.

“… What kind of a lion who isn’t aware of the smell of blood?”

The lone wolf teenager could only stare while travelers slowly emerged from their hiding places, exchanging both surprised and worried look alike. They quickly got to approach him, checking on him because they saw the confrontation prior. Chatters buzzed around his head, with people breathing relief while the rest felt so amazed that the Black Knight left without touching anyone who had no will to wield a weapon.

“… That Black Knight truly is something else.”

“In a way, he is different, I guess.”

“But all this destructive power—is he even… human?”

“How so?” the lone wolf teenager broke his silence for the first time after the ongoing onslaught, attracting people’s attention. “His footprints are blood-stained. That cape must be painted in blood.”

People took turn filling him in with the stories of said Black Knight they did not along the journey. That apparently, no—he did not approach people mindlessly just for the sake of scaring them; he was actually well-groomed and would not be seen around children; fights followed him wherever he went yet at the same time said Black Knight would not hesitate to make alms for the needy. That there was this alluring dark charm about him—some people wanted to be near because they were attracted to his power. Some people wanted to take him down because his head would make a fine trophy of conquest. Some other were attracted to danger that had he just point and choose, they were willing to just strip themselves to lie with him in bed—after all the Black Knight by no means lacked the shape and looks, but even after subtle to not-so-subtle invitations, he mostly rejected them all; a drink or two was the best these ladies could hope to get from him. There was always that side of him, too, people said; the courteous and mindful Black Knight who carried himself like a knight despite his vehement rejection to be called as such—because apparently the Black Knight holed himself in a bar during the nights when he could, enjoying dances with hundred-others who flocked to see the famous Darnaian dancer Lene.

“Probably he felt remorse,” the lone wolf teenager mentioned mindlessly. “But he’s still a beast.”

_What kind of a lion who isn’t aware of the smell of blood?_

The lone wolf teenager pursed his lips, ignoring people’s questions whether he was alright or not.

_I don’t know, Sir—what kind of a wolf who isn’t aware of his prey?_

* * *

 

“You must be the Black Knight.”

He tilted his head. Again, such familiar greeting awaited him that night. This time he was not with a plate of sandwiches—instead, it was some mulled wine, something he ordered to warm himself while staying sober for the night.

Just like yesterday and many other days prior, he did not respond. His gaze was still fixed on the stage, where his companion dancer reigned. She was moving, moving so seamlessly, akin to a rolled strip out of the finest silk bolt being sold at high-end shops. Yet at the same time those smooth and gracefully soft movements sparked so much energy that those who watched them immediately felt refreshed.

He curved his lips then—perhaps only she could. No healer, no mage— _is she sure?_ He thought—yet there she was, able to create life and bring out people’s potential through her art.

“Oh, so ye fancy the dancer.”

His eyes snapped open. Fiery death glare quickly landed on the obnoxious stranger, appraising this newcomer at an instant. He could not really guess what was what now—was this one a better fighter than the axe-wielder he gauged the other day, or…

“Look at me while I’m speaking to you, turd.”

Admittedly, his eyes had not left her since the dance started.

“Oh, no need. Your breath stinks enough to be noticeable.”

His offender glared. “… Ye wanna flee?”

He merely rolled his eyes. Rising to his feet, he brought his nearly-empty glass to the counter. “I need a refill,” he spoke to the barkeep without even sparing another word to the offender.

“… Oi.”

He glanced aside, sighing. “Uncle Barkeep?” he spoke again.

The barkeep emerged from under. “O-oh, it’s you…”

“I’m sorry for the commotion, Uncle Barkeep,” he bowed a bit. “If you’d take my purchase…”

“S-sure,” the barkeep chuckled nervously. “Don’t break a plate this time, alright?”

“… Ah,” he mumbled, haplessly waiting on the barkeep to refill his glass.

“I’m speaking to you, Black Knight.”

The same urge boiled in his chest when the challenger tapped his shoulder—his own nerves calling him to fight, the Mystletainn hanging on his belt which he pictured to cynically laugh at him. He was reminded of the days when Javarro questioned whether he had gone soft, yet judging from his encountering unwinding travelers that night, it seemed the be the other way around. So was he, or was he not?

“Get your hand off me,” he barked.

“Or what? Ye think ye can reign here uncontested.”

 _Who the fuck even wants to rule this place,_ he thought again. There was only one place to return—his homeland, and he only said he wanted to see it rebuilt, not overlording it. “… Why are you people so persistent?” he sighed then, thinking Mystletainn felt even more fitting and comfortable in his grip than ever. He began to question if his own sword gleefully approved of this upcoming fight.

_Probably. You’ve been being so tame, milord._

_And I thought you are disgusted of me, harnessing you the way I did._

_There’s a time for everything, wouldn’t you say?  
Perhaps that explained why Lord Eldigan couldn’t—_

_… Lord Eldigan is no more.  
Silence, you serve his son now._

_Have I denied you so far?_

He growled softly. “You people seem won’t learn anything without a black eye or two.”

“Then get ready. If you want to appear like you are this next big thing, act like it.”

He chuckled. “If.”

“You…”

The offender could not proceed with his intent. Sensing another movement he anticipated for another person to ambush him, considering dirty fights awaited him more often than not. The ones who came to him like this, he mostly ignored. Letters addressed to him requesting a fight which he mostly threw in a bin. When he answered some, the streets would be full of stories of broken bones the very next day.

He turned around. To his much surprise it was his companion dancer, pouring a generous amount of beer out of the jug she snatched from the counter. “… Lene?”

“You people—stop bothering him!” the dancer huffed, smirking at him as she emptied the remaining beer by throwing it in his offender’s face. “You people rattle and rattle at him like this. Wanting to be the strongest what—he clearly isn’t interested, you know?! Like hell Ares cares who wears such title. Now that he withdraws himself from the competition, shouldn’t you be glad?!”

“W-what?” the offender stuttered, gasping over the cold liquid she just threw.

“You came for what—testing Ares? Wanting to claim the title of the strongest? The irony—he does not even bloody care, what the hell is it that you people are losing again? Why are you still pushing him?!”

Just like that, the dancer pulled him outside, leaving the offender alone while the other bar-goers could only—again—stared at the fiery dancer in awe.

“Sword is left at home again! You are my ride for the day and through.”

“… Sure?”

Her demeanor shifted to be something much, much gentler as the huffing gesture changed into a sigh. They walked together, tracing the not-so-busy street, with him walking slower than usual, herding his mount by gripping the rein in his hand to match her paces. The wind blew at them, wiping the dancer’s hair strands, swaying her ponytail.

That caused him to see it—her sad look, the disappointed expression on her face. As they took a detour to an alley which would head to the dancer’s apartment, he took turn stopping, gently pulling her aside.

“Ares…”

“What’s the matter?” he asked then. “Why, did I make you sad?”

The dancer bit her lips. “… I hate them,” she muttered. “Those people. They hounded you.”

“Well…” he wanted to speak, but she huffed again, her hands were on her hips.

“You didn’t even do anything. It’s not like what they did for a living was noble, either. It’s almost like… it’s almost like people begrudged you when you did not succumb to greed, and would hate you if you parade your prowess or status as the strongest mercenary here,” she murmured. “I can make some mulled wine too. Come? And the barkeep shouldn’t say that—you did not break the plate.”

“Ah…”

“You did not,” she emphasized again. “People are giving you less credit than what you deserve.”

“I don’t care.”

“Hnnn. There you go again.”

“… But I truly don’t care? I know what my name brings,” he reassured her.

“Nonsense. Nonsense!” half-shouted, she yanked his mullet, like she was transcending her frustration because like him, she could not say more than what she already did, considering it already turned heads and dropped jaws, anyway. “That’s not even your name,” she toned down her voice. “You are Ares.”

He paused…

“… I have you calling me that, though.”

“Your voice sounds so tender.”

“Hmmm?”

“You are too kind,” she pouted. “Hnnn. I’m so frustrated.”

“Am I?” he chuckled. “Alright—how about this—fight me?”

“See,” she pointed at his nose.

“If it could help the rabbit to vent?” he shrugged, immediately getting treated to her pinching his waist. “Right, right. Alright, Lene—let’s fight. That way you can punch an asshole and I get to fight,” chuckling, he stretched his arms like inviting her to jump into his personal space. “Besides, better me than you.”

“I don’t like that,” she spat, playfully kneeing him. “You are not an asshole.”

“I’d like that,” he countered, making a gentle motion to demonstrate a move to her. “See, cancel your opponent’s reflex—jam your elbow against the thigh—that would make him withdraw his leg.”

“Practice on me?” she looked at him, playfully pushing his chest. “And—why?”

“That will keep you out of danger, so why would I complain?” he chuckled, quickly catching her when his sturdiness overcame her push. “And no. _You_ practice on me.”

“Not kind, you said,” she pouted again, lightly slapping him.

“No. After all the one killing people here is me and not you,” he folded his arms. “Let’s go home?”

“Kind,” she tickled his ribs.

He gasped. “… No.”

“Kinder.”

“No…”

“Kindest,” chuckling, she hopped behind him like she tried to overthrow him.

“Mayhaps not.”

“Eeeh!”

He chuckled, gently swaying her body that he caught. In due no time his arms enveloped her, causing her to flail around out of reflex because he had lifted her off the ground. “On my back or on the horse?”

She lightly kicked her heel against his buttocks. “Bold of you to assume you and the horse are different.”

“Well, one of us is for riding—“ coughing hard after muttering the quip he put her down. “… Lene?”

“What, kind kitty?” she feigned a sullen tone.

“I thank you very much.”

“Huh? Why are you thanking me?”

“… Somehow it feels nice, not having to fight all the time,” he replied. Both his eyes and his voice were… distant, however. Like he wished he did not have to say it—yet he knew that against all odds or everything they made him getting used to, he had to convey that to her.

“Heheee. Good! Then the only opponent left for you to fight is me,” she stuck her tongue at him. “I owe you the three-punch test, anyway. Remember?”

“Come to me anytime, warrior rabbit,” he smirked, making a gesture of cracking his knuckles, which she copied before lunging at him in a jest. The sun was still shining on them, and he felt so oddly at peace. That was—unusual, and he wondered why. Well, she still tried to take him off guard by throwing hands here and there; normally under any other condition it would only trigger his reflexes, burning his nerves to fight. Yet like this none of those resurfaced—if anything, he had a simple urge to just… laugh with her. And it was not the kind of sarcastic laugh either—to see his opponent desperately trying to hurt him to no avail; a vibe something he was much more accustomed to. Rather, it was a sincere kind of laughter, enjoying the scenery, feeling so at peace that he could drop his guard off like that.

Well, for sure her sandwiches did not taste like blood either…

“Theeere, you are smiling like a horse. An opening!” she chuckled, aiming for his nose.

He heard a rustling sound.

She gasped when he caught her fist in a heartbeat. Swaying her body again like prior to position her behind him, his eyes shifted—back to those of a ferocious warrior whose alias befitting his bloody exploits. “… Ares?” she whispered.

“Stay near me,” he whispered back, slowly unsheathing Mystletainn without making a sound.

“Eh…?” the dancer goggled.

“Come out!” the warrior put up his battle-ready demeanor with a fight-ready stance. From every corner of the empty street one by one the alleged offenders revealed themselves, wielding various weapons. There were five of them, two holding a dagger while wearing brass and iron knuckles. He immediately recognized one of them to be the same stranger who challenged him at the bar prior.

“So you are not that toothless, after all,” the offender from the bar grinned. “Or were you waiting for this moment, Black Knight, so you can brag to a lady?”

“He’s not the one who threw a drink at your face—I did!” the dancer yelled at him. “And see what I mean? You were cornering him five against one like this?!”

“Oh, I do remember, dear. What do you think I’m taking accomplices here for,” the challenger from the bar spoke again, unnerving her at an instant. “Would be nice if I take what you owe me as well.”

“… If.”

“What?!”

The dancer took a step back by the time Ares got into a perfect fighting-ready stance, taking two steps before her while she felt the cold surface of a wall pressed against her back. The cub was no longer all smiles and chuckles—he had unsheathed his sword.

Somehow it made her feel sad. Just seconds prior he looked so at peace, being able to drop his guard like that, sharing tips with her with all his battle-hardened reflexes dormant. He even joked back, the dancer noted, recalling the way he playfully caught her. She clasped her hands against her chest, feeling rather suffocated—even if one of these men just straight threatened her, she knew she could place her faith in the cub for not letting them to even get close to her. And yet…

 _Exactly why,_ the dancer thought again, feeling sadder than ever. Gone was the Ares who jested and called her rabbit some minutes prior.

“You heard it right,” the warrior slung his sword over his shoulder in a bored manner. Glancing at the dancer who anxiously watched everything, he sneered. “If. Are you going to leave now? If you want to ambush me next time, at least do that at night or be shadowless during the day, fool.”

“Ares!” she shook her head disapprovingly. Did the warrior just suggest for a night fight—where everything was dark and… even more dangerous?

“Yeah? I figured you’d be asleep to be with me during such hour…” the warrior merely shrugged. “Oops.”

His words were cut short because they lunged at him. She saw him moving rapidly, dodging one attack and another, never letting his guard down. He would always, always strike back while evading a strike, greatly troubling his opponents because they could not predict his moves and whether he was truly cornered or not. Unyielding like a lion he merely wiped off every strike aiming for him before bouncing back to pounce on his prey, sharp and lethal.

The dancer watched closely when he knocked out a lancer with the hilt of his sword. When someone came at him with a sword, he sprung forward, cleaving into the personal space of the sword-wielder before landing a hard blow with his sheath. Hot wind coming from a punch with a brass knuckle nearly grazed his temple, and he hammered his fist against the attacker’s face, giving a vicious cracking sound as said attacker yelped in pain, gasping for breath.

Somehow she smiled.

 _He only used his sword to defend,_ she thought, knowing that despite the broken bones the warrior inflicted on his opponents, they would be alive still.

“Were you mocking me?!”

The dancer turned around.

She did not catch him weaseling his way to get close to her—the person she treated to a thrown drink at the bar pressed against her. Ares was still fighting near her, and she caught that he was facing someone with a sword. Not wanting to burden him further she kneed the offender then brought her elbow against his thigh to mirror what Ares taught her.

That person recovered quickly, however. “You’re not going to make a fool out of me twice, wench.”

The dancer gasped. There was a brass-knuckle fist coming at her, and she quickly crouched that it crassly bumped against the cold, hard surface of the wall. Picking herself up while her attacker composed himself for the unkind impact, she kicked him again in the groin, readying another fist to treat him with.

Her attacker smirked. “If you want to touch me there just say so, sweetheart—ack!”

“Sssh. Don’t talk to her with that foul mouth of yours.”

“Ares!” the dancer gasped in relief, seeing Mystletainn neatly perched at her side, forcefully separating her from the attacker.

“You, Black Knight—“

“I am. She is not,” the warrior muttered under his breath, rolling his sword as its tip pierces through the attacker’s clothing at the collar, causing threads started to snap. “Your absence, or…” his eyes shifted dangerously. “… Your artery?” Mystletainn rolled again, tearing fabrics into pieces, exposing unprotected neck merely some centimeters away, completely bare at the mercy of the Demon Sword.

It was not a hard choice, especially after his primary offender got humiliated even worse. The warrior huffed, sheathing his sword back, approaching the dancer who walked to him slowly.

“Thank you…”

“No. I thank you,” he shook his head again.

“You did not kill them,” the dancer chuckled a bit, silently hoping the fearsome warrior did not detect both relief and anxiety in her voice. He did not back down when she patted his shoulder, although judging from that cocked eyebrow, perhaps he was not as unaware as she thought he was.

“No,” the warrior replied. “If I killed him there…”

“Hnnn~?”

“… The blood will…” he sheepishly muttered, scratching his head. “Your dress will get dirty.”

“Oh,” she replied in a low tone, yanking his mullet. “Not because you didn’t want to kill?”

“Is the dress not enough for a reason?” he replied innocently. When the dancer cocked an eyebrow like demanding him to answer more in all honesty, he relented. “… Yes. Unnecessary bloodshed is bad.”

He cleared his throat when the dancer looked at him adoringly, with even wider, gentler smile on her face. Letting her tease-poke him anywhere she would, he turned his attention to swirling bushes nearby, ready to charge in case someone still hid there, ruining the dancer’s recovered good mood.

His eyes caught a glistening ray that he instantly threw his companion dancer again behind him as his hand rapidly felt the Mystletainn by his waist.

“Ah… what’s the matter?” the dancer asked warily.

The bush rustled and the warrior quickly grasped it.

“There’s nothing there,” the dancer spoke softly, touching him. “Let’s go home? You’ll startle the birds if you roughly grab it like that.”

Somehow something tickled him from within when she said that— _Let’s go home,_ she suggested to him; like she shared a space with him. Like what was hers, was his too in a way. And what did she tell him? Not to startle the birds, huh…

He pursed his lips. Perhaps he should stop brooding, projecting his wariness at her. He breathed battlefield and ate warfare in daily basis—confident in such experience, there should be no mistake; what he just saw marked the possibility of a brandished sword.

“After you,” he concluded then. At least whoever it was hiding would catch his back first rather than hers. Again, he thanked her in silence when she simply followed, like understanding where his thoughts took him and just did so to ease his mind anyway. Talk about who protected whom…

“Oooh, was that a hamster?” the dancer tugged on him. She was just about to crouch to look at the animal when something caught her attention—a long hairpin like one used to decorate a bun, pearly-white with purple flower ornaments around it.

“Ah…”

The dancer looked around, finding what appeared to be a teenage boy standing before her. He looked rather pale, making his raven hair even more contrasting his already-pale skin while his dark green eyes widened. “Oh, sorry! Is this yours?” she cheerfully returned it to the boy.

“Yes… no—keepsake…” the boy mumbled, taking the pin back from the dancer. He looked at the warrior, who darted a sharp glance at him, and trembled. “… You… who created blood rain…”

The dancer gaped, but the boy quickly turned around, abandoning them with a run. The warrior was still staring at his cape, as the teen left until he was nowhere to be seen even after they made another detour into an alley. “Something the matter?” she asked.

“… That boy. I think I saw him before,” the warrior muttered. “… He did not hide like the others. Like…”

“Ares?”

“… Nothing,” the warrior mumbled. “I almost thought he was about to throw himself at me…” he let out a soft gasp when she touched his arm again out of the blue.

“So it was a hamster hiding behind the bush you checked,” she responded cheerfully. “And it was a hairpin that I found. Perhaps everything is not as grave as you anticipated.”

“… I hope so, Lene,” he pursed his lips tightly, giving her a wry smile.

“Right~? Out of us two here, who tends to be right all the time?” she stuck her tongue at him. “Anyway! Everything is going to be alright~! If it isn’t, then it’s not the end.”

“… Hmmm.”

“No brooding o’clock.”

Her comment finally fished the laughter he lost a moment ago. “Alright. Even if I’m right, you’ll still pout at me… see,” he pointed at her.

“Okay. Say, what is the color of that rooftop again?”

“Brown?”

Suddenly she giggled. Sparing an endearing mischievous smirk, she looked at him… slow but sure turning that little smirk into a smile. “See, you are right and I don’t pout.”

He paused. The same surge of warmth attacked his senses again, nearly overwhelmed him …. But he held still regardless, shaking his head while gesturing her to walk before him. “I’ll send you home safely.”

She thought his voice was so soft and husky like a whisper from the wind. Looking at him, she only found tame eyes there—gone was all the ferocious alertness he displayed prior. Chuckling, she playfully captured his arm, patting his hand.

* * *

 

“Great night, eh, Black Knight?”

He stopped walking. The night was dark and cold, with cloudy sky hiding the moon from illuminating the Earth. He could not hear any other sound besides howling owls, and under such circumstance killing intent smelled stronger than ever—naked, unmasked, something he recognized at an instant.

… The way they called on him in the typical manner he recognized—turning him into their hunt.

He merely held his lantern higher, taking a good look at his challengers of the day. Well, at least it would probably end things quicker, with them cornering him at a narrow passage like this. He had left his mount at the compound, heading out to purchase a bottled wine from a nearby shop. Taste for a good drink perhaps what constituted as another footprint his father left in him, and with all the similarities they shared, he no longer knew whether he had to be even gladder or feeling more cynical about it.

He was no Lionheart, he said; yet there he was, finding himself getting close to his image… perhaps without even realizing it. From the way he trained with Mystletainn, accompanied by a simple curiosity of how his father’s swordsmanship looked like in its prime. From the way he dressed, wondering if the Lionheart would be amused or disapproving because the latter wore his color with pride and he wore his because he was an agent of death. Sturdy combat boots, unlike the refined white ones of the Lionheart’s.

He was the Black Knight, would be addressed as such whereas honorable title followed his father’s name everywhere he went. And people would bow first before talking, unlike to him where they would cuss.

“If you would excuse yourselves,” he replied gruffly, gesturing his lantern left and right while his other hand clutched on the wine jug.

“Oh, rest assured—we won’t bother any longer when you’re dead.”

He turned around. Five other appeared from the back, squeezing him in between. Smiling wryly he shook his head, contemplating on his cheerful companion dancer who kept telling him how kind he actually was, spreading her optimism to him. Well, at least she was not with him that night.

“You know what they say—you are the kind of man nobody wants to meet at a dark alley,” one of them spat. “I guess some people just couldn’t fight well.”

He smirked hearing that.

Like a deluge they charged at him, brandishing their weapons while shooting curses and battle cries at him. He caught some of these lines, however—about him being too arrogant because supposedly he reaped all the glory for himself, about him being condescending like he was acting above everyone else exactly when he chose not to partake in their destructive merriment or spared the non-combatants.

When a strike slashed through the lantern breaking the glass and revealing the blazing fire within, he shook his head again with a wry smile. “You people really are obsessed.” He pulled the plug off the jug he clutched with his teeth, sipping the wine while they laughed.

“Yeah, yeah. Guess if we’re going to severe your head, you can have a drink.”

They surrounded him then. By the time weapons came for him, however, he spat the wine he held in his mouth, blowing it against the naked fire from the destroyed lantern. Like a dragon’s breath fire exploded into a flower of blazes, consuming everything it touched.

He heard yells and screams. Those closest to him squirmed in pain as the fire burned their faces and limbs. He merely stood still, taking another generous sip, rinsing-repeating the simple tactic while his feet calmly trod the road. He was the Black Knight—strong and menacing, undefeatable; he who pounced and hunted like a lion. Emerging from commotion while the people behind him tried to salvage themselves, he turned around, watching ten of his supposed opponents patting their limbs, tearing clothes to vanquish fire.

“Some people need to fight better indeed,” he muttered simply, sipping the wine again for himself this time. Clouds began to disperse, revealing faint moonlight which shone onto him. And people knelt and wailed where he stood.

“Wait, Black Knight!”

Those who recovered quickly gathered their weapons back, lunging at him.

He narrowed his eyes. Throwing the jug along with the rest of the wine against the harsh ground, he threw the lantern over it, creating a fire vortex barricading him from his offenders.

“Save your breath.”

Shrugging, he simply turned his back from them. Under the dim light he thought he thought he could hear it—the sound of something… clinking. It had to be metal, he thought, still keeping his hand in his pocket as another conveniently felt the Mystletainn by his side to unsheathe it when necessary.

His eyes caught a similar glimmer of flash like what thought he saw when walking with the dancer Lene, and he quickly turned around, waiting for an actual assassin to get him.

Instead, he found nothing.

“Restless, Black Knight? My condolences.” He heard a light-sounding voice echoing around the isle.

“Well, why don’t you come here so I can repay your generosity?” he responded.

He expected a satisfied rivaling warrior to wait on him at the end of the alley; after all these opponents he had tried evading to fight did not conceal their obsession towards him, so why would an assassin be any different, if he had been followed ever since?

“And let you happily get what you want?”

“… I do not deliberately demand another man’s blood.”

“Really, Black Knight?” the voice chuckled bitterly, too ominous for him to ignore. “Hypocrite.”

He did not expect the line to strike him that hard, yet it stung, anyway.

* * *

 

She twirled her scarf around her.

The fabric seamlessly billowed as she threw her hands upwards. People’s eyes were locked on the stage—on her where she moved, and her feet gave vivacious steps as she circled across the stage. Light and spirited; the kind of moves which erased worries and boosted morale, as if reminding her audience that no matter what the day would bring or how the night would end, they would still be able to rise again after sunrise, with newly-found and resolve.

The music gave the cheering audience rapid drum beats, which she synchronized with her movements. When everything slowly died down, she bowed, blowing a kiss to the anticipating people who saluted her back, thanking them as always with such delightful tone and dainty smile before disappearing to the backstage to change. Emerging some minutes later, she took the water from the counter the barkeep had set for her.

“Breaking hearts and lifting spirits again tonight, Lene?” the barkeep laughed when she sipped it like a lost, stranded traveler.

“I love this current season. It’s not summer yet, but my saving is already safe,” she smirked. “Can you imagine, Uncle Barkeep—a safe saving! Wew, I didn’t even think it would be possible.”

“Haha! Then perhaps it’s not bad to take a few days off,” the barkeep responded. “Gods. Lass—take care of yourself too. We wouldn’t want what happened to your legs last summer to happen again.”

“I know my limit!” the dancer protested, but the barkeep grinned.

“And you keep setting a new one at times. Shush you, get out of here.”

The dancer chuckled. She was about to leave when she caught a familiar figure sitting alone in a typical table, facing a glass. Seeing him, she bounced around, hovering from behind his back. “Hello~?”

He mustered a faint smile when a pair of hands covered his eyes. Of course he had expected it to be her—after all her cheerful laughter was hard to dismiss, and the jumpy moves with the inhaled breath were enough for him to note that it was not yet another challenger trying to get a raise out of him.

Well, challengers did not say hi like that.

“Who is this again?” he asked, finding it even harder to keep a flat tone now that he was greatly amused.

“Guess~?”

“A rabbit?”

“Nope? Do rabbits talk like this?”

“Yes?” he chuckled, feeling a playful chop landing on the back of his head.

“Guess again, genius.”

“A dancer?” he played along, earning her cheery approval.

“Yes! But be specific, there isn’t only one dancer around here.”

“I don’t know other dancers.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Who cares? And to answer your question—a rabbit dancer?”

“No fun,” he could hear a huff with a harder chop this time. Chuckling, he gently pulled her down, making her face tilt against his.

“And to what do I owe this?”

“Because you look brooding,” the dancer ticked his nose. “Like you have this dark impression about you—sad and confused, and you don’t even look like you are angry enough to evaporate it with a sword.”

“Right,” he nodded simply, and her eyes landed on his drink.

“You don’t even order that after a night ride,” she murmured, seating herself beside him. “Talk to me.”

He sighed, facing her, who looked at him with such widened eyes now. “… I’m not good or kind, Lene.”

“Oh, gods. That again?” she pinched his nose, but his disturbed expression haunted her. “… Why so?”

“… Maybe I’m an imposter, no better than an obsessed imposter,” he whispered. She paused. He had looked so disoriented; not only that his eyes wandered into a distance like trying to find something that never was, his body language was different too. He had heaved, slumped—and she figured he did not even notice his cravat was loose and his gloves uneven.

“Imposter?” she took his chin gently, winking. “I’ll fix that for you, Sir Ares.”

He let her work on his cravat. She listened as his demure voice came out—his sudden dwindling to not be able to follow in the Lionheart’s footprints, feeling like an empty casket like a box of wax stamp—that there was only a print of his father’s presence on him and not more; be it through his golden mane, the weapon he inherited, and probably his posture now that he secretly hoped he did have the Lionheart’s physical image in him. “I’m a mercenary, that I’m aware of. But…”

“And do you think knights did not spill each other’s blood?”

“… Lene?”

“Knights are most likely devoted to a master, aren’t they?” she went on. “In that sense, what’s the difference, you and them? You both are sent to fight on behalf of another person and purpose, anyway.”

He sipped his drink. “… I guess I’m foolish for thinking of weird things,” he smiled wryly then.

“Nooo,” she purposefully made a preachy tone. “Cooking is easy, but cooking well is not. See—being a warrior is easy, but being a distinguished one is a hard work! And I don’t mean the martial training, Ares, meow—like…” she paused to take a breath, “… Like you make sure you never engage those who have nothing to do with the conflict. Like you always allow people to surrender and withdraw when you are sure they are no longer threatening. As simple as how you always pay for what you take and never leave a favor without a please and thank you.”

“… I hunted down other people’s opponents,” he muttered pensively.

“And you never failed so far. Great hunter?” she made a letter L gesture at him.

“No,” he murmured. “Because I’ve yet locate my prey. He, whose father killed mine…”

“Ares, a lion doesn’t stop being a lion just because it hasn’t caught its prey,” she responded patiently. “How are you going to take revenge when you haven’t even met him yet? How is a lion going to hunt on an invisible prey? Then again come to think of it, there’s a blessing in disguise about this, no~?”

“No?”

“There is!” she yanked his mullet. “Because you have more time to think.”

“… Think?”

“Mm-hmm? Like talking to him—“

“… I don’t want a chat. I want to kill him, Lene.”

The dancer sighed. “Look at your glass.”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

“Alright…” he focused on his whiskey. “What now—huh?” he frowned when her finger—again, reigned on his nose. But the dancer merely smiled like she discovered something important.

“There, got you!” she winked at him. “See? If you are strictly, strictly focused on something, you’ll miss other things around you. And I pray that you won’t forego what’s important in exchange of…” she held her word a bit. Regardless of her opinion about it, she understood—the meeting would be fateful, and confronting this other warrior would be important for him. And yet…

“Of what?”

… As always, he still had that innocent curious cat tendency on him. “… Of your own shadow,” she replied with a softer tone than prior. “Like—if you keep walking without looking left and right, eventually you’ll bump into something. You keep thinking whether or not you are as strong as your father or how disgraceful you are that you couldn’t see you’re formidable and kind too.”

“Sounds like I’m indeed foolish.”

“Nooo. Why the hell are you so stubborn? Let me see you up close—ah, can it be that you are growing whiskers?” the dancer hovered closer. “Hnnn? Your face is red. Too much drinking?”

“No—this is my first glass. … Your face is—too close.”

“How else am I going to spot your whiskers, meow~?” finally having mercy on him, she stopped teasing. “It’s not foolish, you know. Exactly because you want to do the best befitting your father’s name that you are thinking of these things, yeees? Oooh gods, you’re indeed a cute cub.”

“Cute cub…?”

“Yes? Because in the end you just love your father so much, riiight~?” the dancer smiled at him again. “You know, Ares, meow—I think you can use some rest. It must be tiring, to fight all the time.”

“I’m not tired,” he wanted to protest furthermore, but she silenced him again.

“I don’t mean physically, you know. Some things left footprints on us and things can get exhausting after a while. People have been troubling you lately too…”

“… Ah.”

“Right? I’m sure had your father seen you like this, above all he would be so happy that you grew up strong… and more importantly, safe,” she winked at him. “So just rest tonight, please? Pretty please?”

He paused. Emptying the last drips of his hard whiskey he looked at her back, taking turn to spare a reassuring smile at her. “You don’t need to beseech me like that,” he spoke softly. “I’ll just do it then.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Promise, meow?”

“I promise,” he nodded again. “… Meow?”

“Yaaay, you just meowed!”

“But—“

“No buts, meow!”

He watched her giggling, softly pinching his nose, squeezing his cheeks… and his lips eventually parted into a sincere, sincere tender smile. Shaking his head once again, he just nodded. “Yes, I’ll do as you say. I’ll just check my horse with the stable boy before returning to the compound afterwards.”

“Heheee, good cub. I tell you what, if you purr, it will be perfect~!”

“I’m still not a cat, you know…”

“There is no difference!” she chuckled again, rubbing his mane the way she did a kitten. “I’m not going to bother you any longer. Go forth, kitty! And sleep well! May your troubles go far awaaay~!”

He rose from the chair, sparing a kind, kind thankful look at the dancer who simply waved at him. Bowing in a knightly manner like making a salute to return her waving, he took his leave, exiting the bar. She smiled, sending him off with her eyes. He appeared to be much more at peace now, and knowing him, she was glad to help. Ares hardly indulged his personal sentiments so far, so who would have thought that despite the scary exterior, he wore his heart on his sleeve? And she would make sure he would not regret exposing his vulnerability like that.

“That’s unusual,” the barkeep murmured when the warrior exited.

“He’s a person too, what’s odd about that?” the dancer huffed. “Perhaps next time you shouldn’t joke like he caused trouble when he didn’t, Uncle—yes, the plate one! Gods, he is too self-aware, you see.”

“Well, aren’t you really nice,” the barkeep muttered sheepishly. “And noted. W-well, I’ll try. You see, like it or not and regardless of what is what, he is still the Black Knight.”

“I know! Which is why it’s saddening…” the dancer mumbled. “Right. I’m going home too, Uncle.”

“Okay. Be careful on your way home!” the barkeep waved at her then. “I’ll tell Sir Black Knight you’re off when he returns from the stable.”

“Thank you! He can be a worrywart at times,” the dancer chuckled. Everything was packed neatly by the time she strolled outside. Cool breeze swiped across her face, swaying her ponytail back and forth, and she exhaled in relief—everything would be better just as she told him. And she would very much want to believe it would be, hoping the morning to treat Ares kinder after he woke up later. Suddenly she got an idea to drop by the next morning to check on him. And probably bringing those grilled sausages he not-so-secretly fancied, with a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches he also couldn’t hide liking.

The dancer smiled again, feeling enthusiastic with her plan. What if she dragged Ares for a casual stroll? Did the warrior even take a casual stroll if at all? What a busy morning she would be having the next day—perhaps she should take her own advice and get some rest soon!

It felt good, to be able to help Ares like this. Well, the warrior wasn’t the only one with insecurities—

“… Dame Black Knight?”

She stopped walking. Did someone just call on her in the middle of nowhere like that? Besides—what, Dame Black Knight? Turning around, she did not find anyone at the alley. Shrugging, she was about to resume walking when another person stood in her way, causing her to nearly gasp.

“Oh, my apologies!” the person hastily offered her a hand when she threw her head back in surprise. “I must have startled you, I suppose, Dame Black Knight?”

The dancer frowned. This person looked familiar. Oh—right, raven hair and beautiful dark green eyes? The teenage boy who almost lost his keepsake hairpin? “Um, it’s alright!” she cheerfully said as he held her. “I think you must be mistaken here, uh...”

“You don’t need to use honorific on me,” the boy smiled. “Thank you for picking up my keepsake hairpin. I got—embarrassed, so…”

The dancer shook her head with a reassuring smile. “No big deal! I don’t know where you heard it, but I’m not a warrior—I’m a dancer! And definitely not _Sir_ Black Knight whatsoever,” she chuckled.

“I know,” the boy muttered, somewhat awkwardly. “I—watched…”

 _Hmmm?_ —The dancer looked at him closely now. Perhaps it was just a teen who just got into the troublesome-yet-interesting world of puberty that he only watched her dances from a distance. She understood, though—either the bar-goers were too merry for someone introverted and shy, or he felt he did not fit in because of the boozes. “My dances, you mean?”

“Yes. Yes, and other things.”

“Other things?”

“I’m so sorry,” he walked up closer. “Seems there’s indeed no other way besides asking for your help.”

* * *

 

“That’s the Black Knight.”

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, her words came true for him that day. He really thought she was just trying to make him feel better, but the moment he arrived in his own room at the compound, all well-washed and clean, it did not take long for him to drift away to sleep after landing on his own bed. He still recalled playing with the kitten Eldie, though—feeling the animal weaseling around his neck, poking him repeatedly for not finding any cravat or collared cape there now that he had dressed down in a comfortable simple undershirt. With twenty more poking than a five he originally planned on to do to Eldie, eventually he settled the cat at his side, brushing its fur softly with his fingers until the cat purred.

Before drifting away to the dream land somehow he recalled her quip—joking about him purring like a cat, meowing at him and making him meow, even asking whether he grew whiskers…

Suddenly an unlikely smile brewed on his lips, ended with a soft chuckle before turning into a cough. The cat startled beside him, and he stroked its black fur again in utter gentleness. “Sorry, Eldie,” he whispered. “Do you know that I named you after my father’s nickname in the family? No? ....”

He darted a glance at Mystletainn. Somber light from the lantern near the window illuminated his room. “Perhaps I should have given you another name? Your fur is black like my cape. Like my alias…” he whispered again, letting the cat rub itself against his cheek. “… Are you proud of me, Eldie?”

He paused a little bit, caressing the cat in his embrace, not sure if what he said just now was actually meant for the cat, or… the other Eldie.

“… Calling your name helps somehow,” he darted a quick kiss on the kitten’s small head. “Eldie… ah, I’m feeling better. Whom should I thank first—you, or… our dancer savior?”

 _Savior, huh_ —he clenched his fist and unclenched it in darkness. Mystletainn was just right at his right side, and feeling sentimental that he was, he drew the blade closer.

With that, he fell asleep, feeling so serene and peaceful that he nearly thought he was dead.

The next morning saw him rising around the sun did, and if only anyone could see his expression back then nobody would have thought it was the same warrior whom they feared so much. His ride to the market felt more enjoyable than usual and morning air felt refreshing rather than frustrating knowing some people still felt surprised that yes, he shopped; and yes, he was not going to kill people.

Perhaps the whole peace combined to waking up feeling like a new man made those stares much more bearable than yesterday, and he could not care less if people would still gossip or even hurl themselves at him for a fight.

He waited, feeling rather sheepish and bashful out of a sudden. His eyes darted on the aisle he rarely visited—flowers, earthen wares, sweets—things to enjoy rather than they were practical. Humming to overcome this sudden awkwardness he fiddled with his mount’s rein as the animal walked slowly to follow him on-foot just like many other days prior.

Those night rides paid him very, very well, and some particular thought appeared in his mind when he saw cupcakes and brownies cuts being sold before him. Certainly he did not eat them. And there would be a chance he would just die eating something so sweet like that, but…

… But his companion dancer surely would love them.

He glanced around, waiting for the familiar figure, voice, and footsteps to invade his morning as usual, with the wooden basket in the crook of her arm, her ivory purse dangling on her belt. Ah, right—he had to remind her _again_ that she should be more careful with her purse like that.

He waited. And waited. With his pocket watch ticking to past number seven, he began to frown—she was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she was tired? He made a mental note to check on her, because if she worried about him to the point of neglecting herself like that, he would make sure she rested.

“Sir Black Knight?”

Startled, he gasped a little. It was the cook at the bar—Adela—with the barmaid Maeve with a bunch of purchases in their hands. He nodded at both ladies. “Shopping date?” he said with a smirk.

The barmaid grinned. “Too early to see you grinning like a cat, sweet cheeks. What gives?”

“Wanting to repay your rabbit friend,” he responded with a deadpan tone.

“Maybe she’s not shopping today?” Adela remarked then. “Didn’t even see her around. And we’ve encircled this market like thrice because Uncle Barkeep needed some things for later.”

“Alright, thank you,” he nodded simply, taking his leave after making sure that both bar ladies had a ride on their own. With his latest missions everything calmed down a bit, befitting his rather cheerful mood he was glad he did not have a mission today. When all the chores were done at the compound, he did something he never before—visiting her.

Usually he would not come unless there was a purpose, feeling like it would be way out of place if he just popped at her door without her affirmed invitation first. The last time he was there, it was to ask her for a cat sit-in if not to accept the foods she sometimes made too much.

He prayed that two delicious-looking chocolate cupcakes would be enough to serve as a reason to visit as well as consoling her if she was indeed unwell or too exhausted. Like him, lately she had been getting many invitations and seeing increase in her dancing schedule, and only those living truly remote and isolated from the heart of the city would have no idea who this dancer called Lene was.

“Sir Black Knight?”

He had people calling him with such alias for numerous, numerous various reasons. But so far today proceeded peacefully even for the alias in his ear, and like prior he did not find any challenger—only the witch doctor endearingly addressed as the herbs grannie by his companion dancer.

“Ma’am?” he nodded courteously at her.

“Visiting Lene?” the old lady smiled with a bunch of roses in hand. “Maybe you will have more luck?”

“Pardon—meaning?” awkwardness suddenly washed over him when the witch doctor shoved the bouquet into his hands. Really, now—showing up at her door uninvited with… flowers, and roses too?

“Did not meet her at the market as always,” the old lady explained, oblivious to his inner conflict. “I’ve been wanting to give her this since yesterday. She helped me with flowers prior... usually we can still catch up to each other in the evening or night if she left the bar early, but…”

That practically made him frown. “You’re saying she didn’t return since last night?!”

“S-Sir Black Knight…” the old lady startled, earning his quick remorseful apology then. “I’m only saying I haven’t seen her. You seem to be closely acquainted with her, so I figured you have better chance to meet her than I do. Here you go—the flowers?”

“… My apologies, please keep them with you for the time being,” the warrior drew his sword. Somehow he felt rather uneasy. Her apartment was so eerily silent, without any sound coming from the inside. The witch doctor ought to try contacting her then—if she was actually inside but for some reason could not answer the door, surely one of them would have told him. If there was a robbery and she was held hostage inside, knowing well she only lived by herself—

Ares was truly, truly restless now.

“What’s that for, Sir Black Knight? Hey? Gosh, lad—sheath it back!”

“Checking, Ma’am,” without batting an eye he assessed her padlock. Right, it was locked. And he felt so stupid. If she was inside with the door being locked like that, the padlock at least would have to peek from between the door gap and he’d need to tear into the door first to make more room before he could break it. The padlock secured her door from the outside, that would mean…

“I’ve called here before, nobody answered,” the witch doctor said. “Please, sheathe back your sword.”

He followed obediently with a nod. “… I’ll tell her to get the roses from you,” he bowed again at the old lady. Not wanting to waste more time, he mounted back in haste.

* * *

 

She blinked.

Everything around her was dark, dark, and suffocating. Her body ached and she experienced light dizziness. How long had she been asleep? Really—was she that tired that she slept for the whole day? Sure, lately her dancing schedule was packed—as exhausting as it would be to be hot on her toes for nearly every day lately, she did not feel anything wrong with her body so far. Judging from her history growing up, she was pretty gifted in terms of stamina and health—what tended to tire other dancers the most came relatively easier to her. She was not one to be easily overcome with sleepiness at unlikely hours, the way her body seemed to be naturally perceptible towards change—whether it was changing weather which often caused seasonal flu, or even outer harm such as poison. She could still recall some other kids at the orphanage used to tease her that had the head bishop decided to tuck the kids into bed in time with a sleep staff, there was a chance for her to survive it.

Regardless…

Slow but sure her short-term memory came back into her mind. After parting with the Black Knight Ares with wise words of sending him to sleep earlier, she headed home herself. After that…

She tried to recount everything. She was sure that by then she already felt asleep, having a strange yet unpleasant dream like being trapped in a closed, moving space which roughly rocked her tossed body back and forth. When she wanted to wake up, however, the swaying sensation stopped and everything faded back in black until she woke up with a blink like this.

Lene sighed then. So… she was truly, truly, _that_ tired that not only she fell asleep the whole day, she had sleep paralysis as well? That even hardly ever happened before—perhaps she was way more tired than she thought she was? This darkness ought to mean that she might have woken up on nightfall.

The dancer rolled around. “Hnnn. Can I have five minutes more—“

She paused.

… She did not recognize her own voice. That even hardly qualified as coherent sentence—only then she realized everything came out like a muffled moan. Was she still in lucid dream, sleep paralysis—whatever it was those healer folks would say again…

She rolled again.

She was sure she was on a bed, though. So she had to be home, right? But of course. Why wouldn’t she? Then she’d better snap out of this… prolonged nap, perhaps, for the lack of better word—to light lanterns, make food, and do the chores she neglected.

… Only then she realized she could not move her limbs.

She gasped. Sudden realization hit her—her wrists had been pinned behind her back, tightly secured with soft rope that it did not bite into her skin while keeping her still. As she tried to get up hastily, however, she felt like something yanked her wrists back, forcing her to stay in place. The stress she felt from the rope tugging on her made her guess that whoever who held her there had secured her wrists and hooked her to the bed post.

Held…

That thought quickly sent chill down her spine. She was—taken hostage? And now, exactly when she felt more capable to take care of herself—right when she determined to let her companion warrior have some relaxing me-time for himself?

Oh, right—he—

“Ares?”

_Mmmph?_

What came out startled her. There was no coherent word she could muster—something had hindered her mouth as well, prevented her from speaking. Her face roughly slammed against the surface of this bed or something she could not yet identify, and she dragged herself up so she could sit. Even such movement made her stagger. She then realized she could not part her legs to leave the bed, because her ankles were also tightly secured with a rope.

She tugged on the rope which bound her wrists, wanting to search the knot so she could loosen it. Frantically flailing right and left panic began to overwhelm her. She could not see anything, her wrists were securely crossed behind her back and she couldn’t scream for help. She did not even know where she was at the moment—and a bed, too, out of anywhere else?

She thought she could see light peeking through from the corner. Sounds of chirping birds graced her ears, giving her some sense of normalcy, slowly returning her to her senses. The peeking light was pretty bright even though coming from a corner, and with birds chirping, she figured it was not nightfall, but rather…

Did she pass out in a stranger’s bed? The thought froze her blood even more than the fact that she never returned home after her nightly dancing. And even more than that—her kidnapper’s bed?

She tugged on her bonds, flailing again, rubbing her face against the bed, hoping to loosen the gag. Neither the ropes nor the gag would be so merciful to let her hope manifest, however—but her frantic struggling slipped a cloth off her face, and she had to squint her eyes because bright, bright sunlight from outside offended her adjusting eyes.

 _I’ve been blindfolded,_ she thought, pulling her face downwards to get rid of the cloth from over her head. Sparing some time to assess her predicament, she exhaled, relieved that she did not see any change from her… appearance, hoping that it truly meant that her captor did not maliciously touch her then. She still wore the same dress she did after changing upon completing a performance—typical simpler, daily dress with pastel color if not floral motif. The room was pretty comfortable—warm with enough ventilation, with a quadrant-style window paralleled to the bed she was laid onto. If she wasn’t so securely bound, she could try to escape through that window. Probably not too big for an adult man with significant posture and height to slip away, but she might be able to do it.

The dancer sighed. Her mouth felt dry—gods knew how long had it been for her to be locked in the room… since the night she parted ways with Ares? For a night already, then?

Frustrated, she tried to flail again, kicking her legs hoping to wear the ropes out. Everything around her was so silent that it was eerie, to suddenly wake up in a well-built comfortable room and restrained without even seeing anyone else’s face around her.

Or perhaps for the better. Who wanted her kidnapped again? If that person had wanted her _die,_ they could have slit her throat and left her bleeding to death rather than having to do the extra work with transporting and securing her like this.

“Mmh—“ she tried to shake her head as violent as she could, but the knot at the back of her head held still. Grunting because of the dizziness, the dancer yanked herself onward, hoping to break the rope connecting her wrists to the bedpost.

She landed gloriously on the floor with her face first. Out of reflex she let out a muffled scream as her cheek crassly bumped against the sturdy wooden floor. The rope holding her to the bedpost still prevailed that her movement only gave her a sensation of a jolting pain; half of her was on the floor while her legs were still dangling on the bed. Picking herself up she attempted to drag her body onto the bed—if she would still be restrained regardless, then being on the bed would be more comfortable.

Her blood froze again when she heard footsteps this time. The steps sounded closer and clearer each time, and there was no mistake that someone was indeed heading to her confinement.

“… Miss, you shouldn’t have.”

Her eyes widened. That couldn’t be…

Her captor looked at her, shaking his head softly upon noticing the predicament she was in. He gently picked her up from the floor, returning her to the bed to the questioned look of the dancer whom by now was even more horrified than prior. It truly was him—that person. And never once she would imagine that he of all people would be the one to have her under his complete mercy like that.

* * *

 

“Yooo, Black Knight! You were so tame lately, are you going to talk your way out of t—“

Words were cut short because a powerful fist flew to land a blow to silence the challenger. The man tumbled onto the floor, blood dripping out of his nostril and the corner of his patched lips, knocking chairs around a table in the process. Meanwhile the one who answered the greeting with his fist merely proceeded onward, unperturbed by the unsettling sight before him.

“Think again.”

Nobody even dared to move. Everyone held their breaths as the Black Knight entered the bar in a brooding manner—he stood straight and stiff, inhaling like all the anger in the world was stored in his chest. The fearsome mercenary took his steps further into the bar, stunning the waiters. Meanwhile even the snarky cook Adela held her tongue altogether, joining the masses who collectively paled before the clearer-than-clear angry lion cub.

They never saw him like this.

Despite all these whispers and murmurs they bestowed upon him regardless of his acceptance, nobody would truly, truly imagine that one day the lion was out in broad daylight shooting murderous glares and sharp questions like he was now. Not only that, he was dressed in full combat attire, as if he would gladly take down the entire city if it meant sending his prey to hell. The Black Knight wore his durable black gloves, shoulder armor, and breastplate with chainmail under. He even wore steel kneecaps protectors like he was about to fight in a military unit. His long strands brought him to the counter, and before the suave barmaid Maeve could try diffusing his tense anger with a clever line or two, he already bellowed at the barkeep.

“Uncle Barkeep!!”

“S-Sir?”

“You get out or I drag you by the mustache with a naked blade.”

 Everyone gasped, with some looking like they were about to faint when the barkeep slowly dragged himself from under the counter in fright. “W-what do you want, Sir Black Knight?”

“Lene.”

Everyone gasped again. The warrior resolved to be the harbinger of destruction because of the dancer? As if realizing his spontaneous answer made people even more eager to gawk at him, he cleared his throat, elaborating it. “She did not return to her home yesterday and today she is nowhere to be seen.”

“M-maybe she was invited to dance somewhere, S-Sir Black Knight?” someone spoke up.

“And where?!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know—I don’t have her!”

“Uhhh. C-Count Bramsel likes to invite people so suddenly, s-so mayhaps…”

 _Bramsel?_ “She would rather sleep here on the floor rather than going there at an ungodly hour,” he clicked his tongue, annoyed. “You people have been so obsessed with me these days—ranging from whispering things about me to haul yourselves to fight me. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of you would…”

“Eeek! H-how come we kidnapped her?!”

“I don’t know? That is why I am here to find out. Maybe if I beat all of you _thirty cursed meatbags_ into a pulp eventually someone would—“

“W-waaah!!”

“Sir Black Knight…” the barmaid Maeve courageously stepped forward, running her fingers on his back like she was caressing a cat. But the warrior sharply turned around, his fist only mere inches away from maiming her because the sudden touch triggered his reflex.

The barmaid gasped.

And the warrior sighed, growling, bringing his hand down. “… I’m sorry.”

“Come on, sit with us. Calm down a little—the day isn’t over yet.”

“… No. I do warfare, Miss Maeve—a missing person loses their survival chance as the day passes because more and more their value as a prisoner wears down,” the warrior grunted. “Exactly because we did not receive any ransom notification. I’d prefer that than utter silence—a ransom notice indicates that whoever took her wants something and she will be tended to until their demands are met. But with nothing at all…”

“… S-she could have been…” the barmaid pressed her hands against her mouth.

“Dead. Yes,” the warrior gritted his teeth. “And if that happened Hezul have mercy because I won’t.”

“Then how can we help?” the barmaid sat down, looking so distressed.

The warrior paused. Seconds later his warfare instinct kicked in, and in a much tamer voice than before, he quickly formulated a plan. “You sure saw the people who tried challenging me into a fight these past three days,” he fiddled with his cravat. “Tell me about them. Anything you heard—anything. Names, locations, who they were and whatever they chit-chatted that you heard. Anything.”

“I—can try,” the barmaid muttered weakly. “And what will you do next?”

“Apologizing for causing distress,” he responded like a starving lion. “… Then I shall hunt.”

* * *

 

She began scooting when he approached the bed. But her restraints only allowed her as much, and it did not take long before her back bumped against the head of the bed. She warily scanned him, still in disbelief that it was he who put her in such predicament.

It was the teenage boy she encountered from prior when jesting with Ares—the raven-haired, dark green-eyed softspoken teen who dropped the hairpin she picked up. She would expect him to be forced into the situation, making him an accomplice of a greater criminal mastermind—but no, her doubts were vanquished when he picked her up from the floor.

The teen had the strength and sturdiness of a trained warrior, she understood then. He had flipped her easily, silencing her struggle just with a potent tap against her shoulders to keep her still. When he moved, she thought she could see a scabbard peeking from his waistband, and suddenly she recalled Ares was so convinced that there had to be a sword.

Her mind traveled to the warrior. Sadness suddenly filled up her lungs like she was drowning—why did this happen right when she wanted Ares to be at ease? As if life did not waste a chance to make sure he never got to be free. That his mind and body only belonged to the battlefield, to the paranoia of warfare, to wait for the day to change just so he could rinse and repeat being an attack dog if not a preying lion.

Why…

She tilted her head when her vision started to blur. However the teen cupped her cheek, prompting her to let out a muffled squeal.

“Did I scare you?”

She did not respond. Why did this warrior even ask? Too late for that now, considering he overpowered her and transported her roughly in a locked carriage, perhaps—judging from what she thought to be an unpleasant dream, with her body being tossed around uncomfortably while restrained.

“I did not unlawfully touch you if that was what you were wondering.”

She sighed. There was indeed no specific… pain or sign which hinted as such. Her dress was not even torn in the slightest despite the rough predicament he subjected her into. But what was this talk for again? This warrior teen took her away from everyone else. She did not even know where she was.

As if barely realizing she sure would love some explanation, the teen spoke flatly to her. “Yes. It was me. I hit the base of your neck with my scabbard because I would need to move fast—me alone.”

 _Coward,_ she thought. At least if he would approach her from the front, he could drop this courtly façade and rot in hell for being forceful to a non-combatant woman. And sure she would have raised hell before he could ultimately capture her. It was hard to dismiss the ominous flat tone in the way he elaborated to her either—was he gloating? That someone so young was strong enough to call himself a warrior and could take a hostage efficiently like that? _Oh, really,_ the dancer grumbled into her gag. _And I’m supposed to be impressed? Right after I told you I’m not even a warrior?_

“We are still in Darna. I just returned, anyway—so I won’t leave,” the teen smiled wryly, clenching the hairpin as he spoke. “After this long last, I shall…” she saw how the hairpin stabbed into him, causing a papercut with blood drip. But the teen could not be bothered as he merely wiped his hand against his shirt. “Not that far from the heart of the city, actually. Those warfare maxims would tell you that the safest place is actually the most dangerous place and vice-versa. Warfare is the art of deception too, Miss—we try to read our opponent’s mind and then act oppositely. Do you read warfare treatises?”

“Of course not!” the dancer vehemently denied, feeling so sour for being able to only let out yet another muffled, soft _mmmph!_ whimpering sound.

“Ah. Should I take that off?” the teen gestured at her gag. “I imagine it would have been a nuisance, considering I fixed that on you since last night as you were curled up in my locked carriage.”

The dancer squirmed. She knew it—there was something dark and sinister about this teen swordsman. The flat replies, the monotonous lifeless words—with a hint of… contained grudge in between. She would not be surprised if the teen hid a crueler side of him like a sadist; what she wondered would be whether she could survive it. He didn’t even cut her loose despite being there—at his compound or whatever this building was; despite sounding so confident that knowing those who might look for her would not raid his compound because it would not be suspicious enough to be searched.

“I’ll remove that only if you won’t scream.”

She protested.

“Please just nod if we can have a deal.”

She was too tired to debate a subtly sadistic teenage warrior, anyway. He smiled when she gave him a simple nod; after all her throat felt so dry, and water would be nice. He did not undo the knot at the back of her head, and she noted that he might be calculating as much as he was cunning. He merely slipped the thick fabric down to her neck, quickly clamping his hand over her mouth in a heartbeat.

“I need…” she tried to speak out.

“Let me?” he smiled again. Only when she stopped squirming that he removed his hand, pulling a wad of cloth stuffing her mouth she initially intended to spit out. “There. Better?”

“… Thank you, I guess,” she huffed, flexing her jaw. Perhaps if she was cooperative with him…

“I’m sorry for being so rough, but I couldn’t risk anything,” he reached for the counter near the bedpost. “I believe you would love some water.”

“Lovely indeed, but I can’t drink with my hands tied up,” the dancer looked at him defiantly.

“There is no need for that, Miss,” the teen spoke like she just entertained him, bringing the water jug closer to help her with the drink. “Yes, you’ll need a lot of that.”

 _Thank you, Sir Sadistic Obvious,_ the dancer glared, taking generous, generous sips of the water he provided, feeling rather humiliated for being helped like that. She quickly withdrew her head when it was enough, not wanting to miss a chance to strike a conversation with him. “Why me?”

“I told you I have no other option besides your help,” the teen said. “I would love to fight him myself, but based on what I witnessed so far, he would decline.”

“Him!” the dancer gasped. “Ares!!”

“And you would help him to,” the teen made a _tsk, tsk,_ sound, shaking his head. “I can’t have that.”

“But… but why?! What did Ares…” the dancer shouted, quickly toning down her voice when the teen placed his index finger on his lips.

“Please—or this will need to come back,” he gestured at the fabric hanging on her neck.

She scoffed, but yielded regardless.

“... He caused blood to rain, that Black Knight,” the teen muttered venomously, like he had to fish his words out of the Underworld. “So peerless and ruthless his swordsmanship was that taking down an entire military squad alone would not be a bluff if he said he would. And finally… after years of journey, I’ve become a warrior on my own—and he, that wretched disaster of a man—I’ll bury him! Alive as he chokes on his own wounds to death!”

The dancer trembled a little. The way the teen delivered his intent was so… tense, tense and horrifying that she wondered… “… Ares killed your family?”

“You mean burning down an entire village with all the crops and cattle with his squad? Slaughtering wyvern knights with my father among them?” the teen chuckled bitterly, clutching his keepsake hairpin. “No words could describe the pain I experienced. And you,” he hissed at her. “I’m sorry, but I need to remove you from his side. I need to see him on his knees—defeated, conquered, reduced to nothing but a casket who only mewls as he writhes in agony. And I’ll enjoy it, Miss, do believe me—the day he ends his life with his own sword is the day you will see me drying his blood to wipe my face with.”

“… You’re joking,” the dancer held her breath. “That can’t be. Peerless yes, ruthless no—let me go.”

“I shall, when he is dead,” the teen responded flatly. “Won’t that help you too in a way?”

“What kind of deranged thought is that again?! Do you think it’s liberating, to have me returned when he is naught but a corpse?!” the dancer yelled, catching the teen off guard. She nearly, nearly screamed at him, causing the burning sensation in her throat because of how utterly furious she was to hear every word he just spawned. “And I know Ares while you don’t. He will never—ever, as you witnessed yourself, as you saw how he evaded meaningless fights—he would never commit such atrocity.”

“Oh, please. What if there is this part of the Black Knight you did not know?” the teen shrugged. “I tracked him down once I completed my training. It was brutal, but hey, I am strong now,” there really was an unmasked sadistic glint in the teen’s eyes as he spoke. “And it’s just convenient. He left Leonster to start a mercenary life in Darna? Coincidence—this compound is my late grandfather’s.”

“… Ares is… was—a Leonsterian citizen?” she looked at him.

“See?” the teen chuckled now. “I do sympathize with you, Miss. I really do.”

“He is not under obligation to tell me what he finds difficult to,” the dancer held her ground defiantly. “And even if he was this fearsome Leonsterian mercenary like you said—interesting, that war-torn country is under the Empire’s subjugation yet a mercenary like him managed to be ruthless? And here in this godforsaken desert region of Darna he is as docile as a cat? What are you, delirious?!”

Even if he did not say it, the dancer knew what she said smashed the teen right in the heart.

“There is another way, you see,” she went on, staring _down_ at the teen despite being the one in ropes, tossed helplessly on his bed. “You can just tell him the problem is and ask him to fight you fair and square—now _that_ is not a senseless fight! Yet here you are, bluffing about being a strong warrior. I _am_ the first person you defeated in Darna, aren’t I? Me—just a mere dancer you snatched off the street on the middle of the night—alone, without a weapon, without even a chance to defend myself. Are you sure you got the right Black Knight, or have you been thinking of yourself too highly all along—ngh!”

“I guess this will have to return,” muttering under his breath, the teen shoved the gag back between her lips, vanquishing all the words that she was forced to swallow them back. Tightening the fabric to fill her mouth he roughly knotted the ends behind her head, his eyes flashing with anger—anger someone so young should not even experience in the first place.

She squirmed when he looked at her again.

“Sincerely, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You think,” the dancer rolled her eyes, hoping he could catch what she wanted to say just so she could destroy his dignity—again. She wiggled, trying to loosen her bonds—but he stopped her.

“You are not going anywhere until I invite him here,” he said then.

_But when?_

“I’m not in a hurry,” the teen replied in a calm manner as if they were just talking about mundane things instead of his intent to torment the Black Knight. “So we can get to know each other while you get used to being here? I’ll return later with your food, don’t worry.”

She could not believe what she heard. She was to be held until he decided to stop toying? … So Ares better found her first and soon then.

“That’s less likely to happen, though. Savage beasts have no sense of direction, don’t they?” the teen spoke again like understanding where her thought went. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss.”

“Mmm!” she screamed into her gag to catch his attention, gesturing at her bonds. Even if the ropes were tame enough as to not leave a burn mark, she had been in such predicament for a while that her limbs began to feel… weary. However the teen shook his head, tossing a blanket over her like he was determined to overwhelm her struggles in any way.

Her eyes widened, fixating on the door which she was certain to be locked now. When she was certain that he was no longer within earshot, Lene kicked the blanket off her, tossing it back onto the floor. The sun was still shining brightly from the same window she witnessed… and she felt so awful, so helpless and frustrated as her mind flew back to the lion cub. If life kept cruelly surprising him like that, then chances were he would completely give up his humanity, believing that only the path of gore glory was ever the only viable way for him.

And she would like to believe in him. In his accountability—that he was not what these people made to be, and whatever it was that he did in Leonster before moving to Darna did not consist of trampling over helpless commoners and gruesomely flaying lives out of their bodies. That was why she had to see him again; and sure she would want to, considering how yielding and soft he was the last time they talked—

Lene gritted her teeth, trying to break the ropes encircling her crossed wrists. She felt so worn out that there was hardly a tug when she attempted to stretch her limbs, and the force tossed her back. Sighing, she tried to make herself more comfortable by landing her head against the pillow, hoping the part she wetted with her tears would have dried when her captor came back.

She would not falter. Not like this—never.

* * *

 

Death had a contender that day.

Usually he was His agent—reaping souls for Him, delivered clean and efficient. But today was different—it was as if he usurped Him, breaking their typical partnership.

The Black Knight rode in a blaze, and may the gods help anyone who looked at him that day because no Darnaian citizen had been spared so far—they all trembled in fright because he treated his surroundings like a battle ground. It had been two days since Lene went missing, and right now he was considering a scorching method if that meant to pave a path.

He took his mount to the outskirts, finding a band of ruffians in the shabbier area of the city where petty criminals tended to live—it was rather far from his mercenary compound, and based on everything he gathered from the bar-workers, that was where his random challengers tended to spawn from—most of them had a grudge because his mercenary group made their so-called jobs harder. Be it guarding a luxurious shop, acting as a personal buyer, guard duty—such A-rated mission usually fell on his shoulders, and the thought of pissing half of Darnaian bandits itself would have made him smirked if he did not have a more important mission to accomplish.

The street was empty, spared some stray dogs barking when his horse traced the road. Keeping still on horseback as he stared into a distance, he struggled with his own bloodlust, inhaling multiple times before grabbing a long sturdy wooden block from a clearing where a construction used to be.

He had to settle this. He had to find her before Javarro had to send him on a mission again. And he figured if he was to paralyze a generous number of bandits _overnight_ then at least it could halt the job flow for a few days. He already swallowed hard when Javarro chewed him out, hearing how the lion cub practically lashed out at the entire city out of… _that._ Out of wanting to find out who took his companion dancer behind his back.

“What the fuck, Ares?!” the mercenary chief soured when he returned even more sourly yesterday afternoon. “I heard you picked a fight basically with anyone you landed your eyes on.”

“No? I did not fight the ladies.”

“Goshdangit,” the chief sighed. “If this is because you begrudge me calling you soft and tame…”

“Rather than that, Javarro—did Bramsel have a party?”

“Bramsel? Nay. Spring locks him in his office because trades resume,” the mercenary chief pondered a little. “And you know those typical highwaymen, they’ll wait until profit season comes to rob all the hard work during spring. I guess we shall take it easier for these couple of weeks, eh, my boy?”

“… So she’s not staying at Bramsel’s...”

“And where are you going again?” Javarro frowned when the lion cub put on an armor.

“Wreak havoc, breaking bones, tearing joints, what else?” Ares rolled his eyes before speeding off.

And he was currently only a moment close to. Gripping the wooden block, he exhaled, throwing it against a nearby well, creating commotion which drove people out of their houses with lanterns. “What the? What’s going on?—B-Black Knight?!”

“Yeah?” he dismounted, smirking. “I have a question, but knocking on houses wastes time.”

“H-huh?”

“You people have been wanting to fight me lately, I recall,” he moved forward, flashing a dangerous smile. “Now I’m here. Let’s get this straight—who among you scoundrels kidnapped my rabbit?”

“... Rabbit?”

“Lene, the famed dancer!” he hissed ferociously.

“I have no idea what you are even bluffing about,” some of them scratched their noses, confused. “But now that you came here, might as well kick that little arrogant ass of yours—“ again, like prior, words were halted because he threw another block, following it up with his knuckles.

“Perfect, I’m in a _wretched_ mood!” the warrior smirked again. Moving forward he pounced on a dozen of bandits like evaporating half of the anger he contained tightly in his chest. In a short time people squirmed and mewled in pain at his feet, and he grabbed one of them by the collar, shaking him with all his might until his target yelped, thinking his limbs would fall off.

“We don’t have her! Why would we even touch her, knowing you are here!”

“… You’re saying you would, provided I wasn’t?” Ares glared now. “Which one is it, dimwit?!”

“No, I swear on me mom—we don’t have her!” the other man choked when the warrior released him.

Ignoring a dozen of defeated, injured men who repeated the answer to him, Ares returned to remount, feeling so hollow and dejected. Not even there. Not even in the place where castle troopers would not even touch voluntarily. Where was she, then? It was as if the earth swallowed her, not even leaving a shadow behind. She was right, and he wished she wasn’t—how should a lion hunt an invisible prey?

“Gracious Lord,” one of them muttered under his breath. “Look, if there is someone as caliber, don’t you think we won’t know about it? You and I get in touch with the underworld easily—the only free-flow of people we had recently is just a bunch of travelers from Miletos and Thracia, you know?”

“Travelers?” he repeated, sharply turning his head.

“Yeah, Bramsel’s business partners from the trade hub,” the same person replied. “And the Thracian ones were probably just tourists wanting to see a remnant of Loptyrian temple. Don’t blame me if they are dumb, choosing that as an entertaining destination. I sold them food when they camped overnight.”

“… When?”

“Let’s see…” the same person thought a little. “Oh, right—wouldn’t you know, considering you rode—“

He paused. Rode? That night when Javarro tasked him to lead a group guarding the businessmen from Miletos and he had to kill a group of serious, professional bandits who smelled their arrival? Oh, right—when a bunch of people anxiously hid behind a caravan.

… Not all of them hid, if he recalled correctly; and then on that particular afternoon…

“… I see,” the warrior spoke it in utter disbelief, like he was really expecting a thunder to come down from the heavens with a blaring voice to contest his conclusion. That could not be—this was way, way too odd even for him, who had seen various scenes on different battlefields. And even if that was true, why her? And why didn’t this person just send him a letter of intent asking him to comply, rather than keeping her hostage for days? If he could capture her smoothly like that, he could have killed her too; then why? He checked rivers like a madman ever since she went missing, anxious and relieved at the same time because while not seeing her corpse meant she was still alive, the anxiety would gripe him worse because it meant she was somewhere out of his reach.

Ares paused. Seconds after his sharp, sarcastic exasperated laughter came out, tearing the night into pieces the way a lion maimed its prey. What he did sent chill down the spines of his defeated opponents, especially when he crouched, approaching that one person who spoke to him.

“Do me a favor,” he narrowed his eyes at him, speaking in a silky tone. “Find out if all those tourists have left the city. And do not ask me how—I don’t bloody care. Don’t let me scorch this place crisp.”

“A-aye, B-Black Knight.”

“You people kept pressuring me to act like a warlord. Now you have it—be careful of what you wished for,” the warrior smirked… devilishly. “And I hope you carve tonight into your dead brains should one of you ever think of laying a hand on her. Dancers are to appreciate, not to touch. Hear me?”

“U-understood.”

“You better,” the raging warrior glared then. “You can find me at the bar. Come… with information!”

“I don’t understand—just for one dancer…”

The warrior sharply turned around, seizing the person by the neck. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

* * *

 

She sighed for a hundredth time—perhaps.

The night had fallen, and she counted the lone wolf teenager might have held her for two nights now, maybe less, maybe more… she kind of lost track of time. He was too calculating, too anticipating to be taken off guard—for instance, he never let her out of his sight without restraint, and right now she genuinely wondered how on earth her limbs had not given up after being tied up for so long. Her sanity, too—after realizing she was not the kind of prisoner who would easily cower in fear, the teen covered the window with a sheet, taking it off only in the morning where he would be there with her.

He did return with dinner as he said he would, appearing calmer than the explosion of crude grudge he displayed to her earlier. Or—she did not know, perhaps when he returned she was already way, way too exhausted that she curled on the bed, lying asleep.

She had a dream.

Someone clad in a cape tried to reach for her, and it was as if she could not reach for him back. When a pair of hands eventually found their way to get to her, however, to her horror and dismay it was the lone wolf teenager, who then dragged her further away into darkness.

She moaned softly. It was as if the subconscious part of her mind tried to evaporate her frustration, to help her cope with her predicament. Reality and dream were hard to differentiate anymore, especially when she felt a pair of hands planted themselves on her shoulders, gently seating her on the bed.

She opened her eyes—to the teenage warrior’s face. “Hnngh!” squealing, she quickly turned away from him, and unlike prior he took a few steps back from her.

“You slept so soundly.”

She did not respond—how could she again even if she wanted to, considering her mouth was still seized.

“Fancy some grilled cheese sandwiches?” the swordsman gestured at the counter near the bed. “You are going to be surprised, perhaps—but I got them from the bar, Miss!”

She gasped. He chuckled, and she instantly regretted for reflexively reacting like that.

“I’m in a better mood, you see,” the teen swordsman kept talking, cutting the sandwiches into bite-sized pieces. “Because I heard that beast wreaked havoc everywhere he went, leaving traces of injured people wherever his footprints were these past few days.”

 _Ares is… going on a rampage?_ —the dancer made a muffled sound, looking at the teen curiously.

“Like a sickly beast. He always is.”

The dancer kicked the pillow off the bed at him.

The teen merely picked up what she tossed back to the bed. “Disagreed?”

She grumbled.

“He ordered the same sandwiches right before I came, apparently,” the teen chuckled, like it was the funniest thing he heard for the entire day. When she looked so pensive, he went on, looking rather pleased like someone who just achieved his goal. “Guess I got the result faster than I planned. And I heard he threatened to beat up thirty bar-goers—straight and clean like a starving lion. Don’t you know?”

_… Out of… looking for me?_

“My, you are so quiet that I nearly did not recognize you,” the teen pulled the gag off her lips. “Well?”

“Hnnn,” she flexed her jaw again, feeling numb. How many hours had he kept her in such predicament? “Even if I knew, what’s the difference?! I _could not_ talk,” she sneered. “And lest you forget, against my will!”

“Ah, you are still you. I’m glad,” the teen was unperturbed by her still-burning defiance, taking the plate he had previously set on the counter. “Dinner time, Miss? Or would you want some water first?”

“Just… untie me,” she whispered. “You’ve been keeping me like this since forever.”

“You don’t need your own hands to eat,” the teen replied.

“It hurts,” she tried again. “I almost can’t feel my arms anymore. Please?”

His only response was to feed her the sandwich pieces. It was almost like he planned for it—each time she tried to speak, he made her eat so that she bit back her tongue and swallowed back her words. She took the water he provided, and retried her luck to speak to him while he cleaned the plate.

“Untie me.”

He glanced at her. Meanwhile the night had fallen, leaving nothingness from the darkness outside. Setting a lantern nearby but at a safe distance from her touch, he looked like weighing on something. “Why should I? Give me a reason to.”

“You’re—joking,” she held back all her emotion in her throat, amazed that she could.

“You want me to. Then try bargaining with me?” the teen deadpanned. “You have a _unique_ way with words and insights you hammered me with. Now that I let you speak, you won’t take the chance?”

“You—cold-blooded savage!”

“Not as much as he is, though,” the teen responded flatly again. “Try again?”

“War cost him everything,” the dancer growled. “… And he is not.”

“I see. This will come back then?” he brought the thick fabric up to seize her lips back.

She bit his hand.

He grunted, withdrawing from her face in a heartbeat out of reflex. Meeting her defiant eyes somehow he felt rather small—he had her at his complete mercy, and she was as she stated she was—not a warrior, and worn-out after being restrained all the time. He truly only let her mouth free for food and water, and even if he had to untie her for the call of nature, he always made sure she was never truly out of sight—let alone unrestrained. He thought he had subdued her, recalling her disbelief and defeated look the last time he let her off the bed—herding her to the bathroom with unsheathed blade as he kept her wrists tied on the front. He gave her the privacy she wanted, of course—after all he did not take her for a lecherous reason—yet he locked the bathroom from outside so she had to signal him to open it when she was done. After that, he would return her to the bed, crossing her wrists to bind them behind her back and work on her ankles the way he brought her there.

And yet each time he entered her captivity, it was as if her resolve grew anew. True that she had shown defiance many times. True that she called him pathetic. Somehow he found himself on the losing end—he might have her restrained, but she wore out his soul easily.

He was clouded with questions—more than ever. Why did the ruthless Black Knight keep such a _lioness_ by his side? This lady was not going to be anyone’s trophy or conquest, and he only heard that none stood against the fearsome mercenary so far—why was she still alive if she was this bold and ardent?

“Miss—I beg of you, don’t make me lay a hand on you.”

“And you think you haven’t, coward?”

That name again. He was fuming each time she called him that, but at the same time, strangely enough his strength vanished exactly when she did. Perhaps it was indeed wise to silence her all the time?

“You think it doesn’t hurt, being made to stay still like this for days? Are you daft or simply _moronic_ —”

“Alright, I get it,” he shushed her, placing his index finger on her lips. “But I’ll sleep here too.”

“You will… what?!”

“Would you rather let me leave you like this?”

She quickly shook her head.

“Good then! See, if only you complied more,” he approached her, unknotting the rope binding her ankles to rub her. “Is it here? Are you feeling better now?”

“… I’d rather for you not to touch me,” the dancer replied sourly, tethering her legs to her side.

“Alright. My mood improved so I was just feeling generous, you know,” the teen merely shrugged, hovering behind her to reach for the rope binding her wrists. Her arms fell at her sides when he was done releasing her, and as much as she wished to punch him, too bad that her joints almost gave up. Sighing, she let her limp arms just be, rubbing her wrists to ease the tension.

The teen looked at her.

“Can I help you?” she asked sarcastically.

“… Why is it that you…” he murmured. “You seem to be a nice person, Miss—so why, about him, you…”

“… Eh?”

“Never mind,” the teenage warrior quickly shook his head. “I’d rather not hear an answer. By no means I am interested to hear more defense advocating for the beast.”

“What if I have another opinion?” the dancer responded sharply. “Like you wish you felt… safe?”

“You are kidding,” he sighed. “Please don’t treat me like a child. I’m not a little boy anymore.”

“Little boys do not kidnap dancers,” she countered, silencing him. “Because they are not a coward.”

“Call me whatever you like, I imagine not being able to talk for days is frustrating,” the teen shrugged. “So, I’m a coward now, is that it? Or would you cuss me?”

“What do you mean now—have you ever been anything but?” the dancer chuckled bitterly, not budging when the teen landed a venomous stare at her. “I pity you.”

“You—what?”

“Yes?” the dancer looked at him, defiant. “Tell me. Did you brandish a sword when…”

“Yes,” the teen cut her in. “Still pitying me? For running away from you, is that it?” he glared back. “Can you still say that to my face, Miss, despite being your captor and holding you at my mercy?”

“I can,” the dancer smirked. “And not for running away from me, dear—from him.”

The teen stiffened. “Don’t call me that—please.”

“You prepared your entire life for vengeance,” the dancer continued. “… And then you cowered—dear.”

“Miss, for the love of God—“

“Can you, now that you could not even look at this oh-so-wretched villain in the face?” the dancer simply went on, knowing that she had torn into the inner sanctum of what the teen tried so hard to protect. “Were you actually so angry at him, or were you beginning to doubt yourself, because…”

“Because of what?”

“Because you are afraid?” the dancer looked back. “You are afraid that he was unlike what you pictured, and indeed he was not. You’re not a risk-taking person, you said—what if you are actually just afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of him if it’s what you are thinking,” the teen growled. “Would I ruffle the Black Knight’s mane so much this way by keeping you here for days if I was afraid of him?”

“You would,” the dancer _smiled._ “Exactly because you can’t take a risk.”

“I guess play time is over,” he growled. “After all your joints already breathed a bit, didn’t they?” pushing her onto the bed, he pinned her down, forcing her hands upwards and crossed her wrists. His legs pushed against her sides, preventing her from kicking him. Working in a rapid motion he bound her crossed wrists altogether, hooking the restraint to the bedpost. Completing the job he circled another coil, restoring the knot work he applied on her ankles.

“No—untie me, coward!” the dancer tugged on the rope hooking her to the bedpost to no avail.

“Need I remind you who holds the power here?”

“My pleasure. Need I remind you—you are not worthy to be Ares’ opponent!”

The dancer gasped. She felt a pair of strong hands flipping her to the side—his; the teen swordsman’s. He flashed a feral gaze at her, looking so indignant. His eyes tore into hers vehemently, like he was about to burn her to crisp with sheer gaze alone. “… I disagree.”

She followed where his eyes traveled, shooting him a pleading look. “Please, no more of that,” she murmured. “You don’t need to restrain me more than this—I won’t scream. Pl—“

Her words were cut, however, and she whimpered.

“You won’t need your mouth to sleep. I’m generous enough tying your hands on the front,” he responded in a low tone as he yanked the thick fabric off her neck to redo gagging her tightly. “I’m worthy,” he glared at her. “And you will acknowledge me as I toss his corpse at your feet.”

* * *

 

He thought the night was darker and more vicious that day. Light spring shower rained on him while he tightened his cape around his body for better comfort. His mount neighed and he clicked his tongue, maintaining one-hand riding as his other hand brushed its mane until the animal calmed down.

He was some kilometers outside Darna, at the rest area where his previous battle took place prior. Retracing the ground, he paid attention to the remnants of skirmishes happening three days ago, hoping to catch anything—anything at all.

_Where are you, Lene?_

He glanced at the sky, feeling equally somber now that there was no star in sight.

_… Where, rabbit…?_

He sighed. All these months lately even if the sky was dark and there was no star, he could count on something more bedazzling if all he wanted was a light source—

_—Everything around me feels like a vacuum—so silent, so cold—_

Sands buried his defeated opponents well. His lips parted into a sad, sarcastic smile—three days ago blood spilled over this ground. And now it was as good as new, like something never happened there.

He thrust Mystletainn against the ground, and… growled.

Growling, growling so loud and ferocious—no longer a starving lion that he was—it was a _starved_ lion howling maliciously as his blade tip began to mightily pierce downwards.

_I’m not really used to this kind of silence anymore somehow._

There was nothing he could use as a clue...

Frustrated, he remounted, steering the mount back to enter Darna. One of the gatekeepers nodded at his familiar presence, and he held the urge to seize the unknowing soldier by the collar if he did not strike a conversation first.

“I thought you are a traveler, Sir Black Knight! I’d just redirect you to the inn where everyone’s staying.”

He looked at the soldier. And an idea came into his mind. “Actually, yes. Show me?”

The naïve guard complied despite feeling confused.

The inn nearly flipped its sign to close when he arrived. An innocent maid caught his arrival—her eyes bulged when he approached. “Gods, aren’t you Sir—“

“Ares—Black Knight, yes,” he murmured, signaling her to tone down her voice.

“Do you need a room?” the maid asked with a wink.

“I know you’re full,” he replied meaningfully. “Trading season?”

“Well, those travelers and businessmen from the Miletos and Thracia did take most, but…” she hovered closer. “Come on, Sir Black Knight. You’re a grown-up.”

“Very much so, Miss.”

“There’s one—vacant, though.”

“I’d fear accidentally kicking you off the bed,” he replied suavely with a knightly bow, smirking a little when the maid giggled. “My compound is warm enough for me so far. But really, one vacant?”

“Oh, right, right. See, there is this teenage traveler among them,” the maid thought a bit. “I was ready to call a carriage for him because he kind of looked distraught, you see, and I thought being in the middle of… uh, merry adults would not make the best companion for a teenage boy. But he…”

“He, you said,” he repeated.

“Yes, a teenage boy indeed! But he said he had a home to go. Thanking me profusely though.”

“… And where is this home?”

“My! Can it be—your relative?”

The Black Knight paused. He never did this before, and usually he would not. But he was willing to take a risk. Warfare was a play of risk assessment anyway, and if a wolf cub could maneuver, so could a lion cub. “You can say I lost him,” he made a wise reply, delivering it in a surrendering manner. “So where?”

“Hmmm. Usually people will settle at the bar to rest, don’t you think?” the maid thought again. “Or… oh, gods. I hope your relative did not anger the old gardener of that old house nearby the bar.”

“Pardon—old house?”

“Oh, yes! The old master died some years ago. The house is largely unattended ever since,” the maid said again. “Sigh. Too bad you are in a hurry for the boy. Really though, there _is_ a vacant room.”

He pursed his lips—and lost it. Suddenly he chuckled, chuckled… feeling so foolish of himself. “Right. The safest place is the most dangerous one to hide and vice versa.”

“Eh, Sir Black Knight…?”

“My apologies if I confused you,” the Black Knight nodded courteously at her, bowing… taking her hand in a knightly manner even if he did not kiss it. “My mind is clearer than ever now.”

“I hope you didn’t get rained,” the maid responded with a concerned look.

“On the contrary. I’d appreciate being doused in cold water right now,” he smirked again.

* * *

 

She opened her eyes slowly. What time was it again? She could hear birds chirping like the first night he took her there. So… late morning? She nearly cussed again, realizing her hands were still tied up. At least the teen swordsman had taken off the sheet covering the window, so she could enjoy—perhaps—the bright morning sun.

She moaned, feeling so weary and thirsty. True that having her wrists tied on the front was less painful, but of course she’d rather not have any restraint on her at all. Positioning herself, she tried to push her face as close as she could—to her bound hands. Again. Again, again, again.

Sighing, she held on tightly on the fabric she could eventually clutch, summoning strength with the little room her fingers could make, breathing relief and nearly wanting to shout in joy when she could pull the thick fabric off her mouth.

Lying on the bed, she conserved her strength, looking at the ceiling with a mixture of… emotions.

_What takes you so long?_

She felt the rope around her wrists, trying to tug on it with her teeth.

_He hates you. He hates you so much that it scares me so…_

Her jaw hurt.

_Please find me so you can tell me that you truly, truly did not do it—_

She tugged on the rope again, feeling the knot she had been looking for.

_Ares, did you… do it?_

The rope snapped and she quickly undid her ankle bonds. Moving without a sound she paid attention to her surroundings closely, but there was no sound of him whatsoever so far. Nearly tripping on her dress she slowly lifted the quadrant window.

It was rather heavy at first—perhaps because the house had been abandoned for a while that iron corroded. But she summoned her will until she could push the window upwards. The sound startled her and she waited nervously. Convinced that she still did not hear anything, with her fingers crossed she hoped that he was somewhere far from the room where she was kept captive.

She slid her body from the window. Slowly, nimbly, until she could see grass under—the dress hindered her, but if she could land safely on the grass, then it should be alright.

“Oh!” she gasped as she tumbled, anticipating the grass to embrace her.

… Her blood froze. Rather than the grass, it was—hands. Strong hands welcomed her after the fall.

“That’s rather dangerous, Miss,” the teen smiled at her. “Were you meaning to head somewhere?”

He slung her over his shoulders, stuffing a wad of cloth into her mouth before she could scream for help.

* * *

 

“… Sir Black Knight?”

There was no answer.

“… Sir Ares?”

“Hrrh. Wha—“ gasping, he took his head off the table, to the concerned look of the barmaid. “… Oh, it’s you,” the warrior replied in a coarse manner.

“You fell asleep,” the barmaid pointed.

“It seems,” the warrior deadpanned. “I circumvented this city last night. Sorry—I don’t… I usually don’t get to hear my name being called often—besides by her.”

“It’s alright. But please, don’t wear yourself out like that—if you falter, who will save Lene?” the barmaid smiled reassuringly at him, setting a plate of grilled sausages. “Eat something. You fell asleep the moment you got here.”

 _Grilled sausages,_ he pondered a little.

“… Can I get something else?” he blurted out somehow.

The barmaid looked at him.

“… Please, if you could.”

She could only nod softly with a sad look on her face. The cook personally came out of the kitchen with braised pork belly cuts for him, sparing a sympathetic look. “If this isn’t enough, help yourself.”

“I thank you,” he slowly reached for the fork and knife over the plate. He knew it too—the bar kind of lost some light. Four days without the cheerfully warm dancer truly made a difference—even the waiters did not feel like cracking jokes and grilling his ears anymore, and the barmaid hardly made silky commentaries like her soul was equally vanquished.

Of course, there had been other dancers to fill her slot while she was missing. One of them smiled alluringly at him, whispering that she could serve his mead and ginger ale because she heard the prima donna did it sometimes.

“But I wonder,” the barmaid returned, casually seating herself on his table. “You’ve searched everywhere. Not even Bramsel invited her. Where did she go again?”

“What if the kidnapper smuggled her out of the city?” the cook slid in, endearingly twirled the barmaid’s curls. “Hello, dear.”

“Hi, gorgeous,” the barmaid chuckled. “No. The bandit Sir Black Knight defeated said the only free-flow we had recently was those traveler and businessmen groups. So… she is still here.”

“I do think so. There is one place we haven’t searched, but I need a reason. Strong reason.”

“And why not?” the cook replied impatiently. “Sir Black Knight—you made half of Darnaians wet their pants en masse when you ran amok like that. And one building you cannot?”

“Miss Adela, I’ve been informed the gardener is a deaf old man,” the fearsome mercenary responded. “I need to get in without force. I can’t and won’t lay a hand on someone like that.”

“… Perhaps Lene is right about you…” the barmaid mumbled mindlessly.

“I miss her,” the cook nodded. “Gods—what kind of _fiend_ who kept her hostage for days like this?”

“If she did not disapprove, I’d flay him.”

“Y-you are kidding.”

“Actually you are right. Flaying is an understatement.”

“… Sir Black Knight.”

“Sir Black Knight?”

Everyone else gasped when they heard a voice echoing his alias. Ares sighed. Right, right—perhaps it was not so bad having people who voluntarily came to him to get their nose broken. At least he could vent his anger… perhaps.

But turning around he only found a little girl waiting on him.

The barmaid cupped her mouth and he knew why—it was unsettling, truly unsettling, having heard his alias being called like that by a little girl. Little girl with innocent rounded brown eyes and beautiful twin tails whose head barely reached his waist.

“The name’s Ares, Little Miss,” banishing his personal sentiment into abyss he crouched to level the kid.

“Oh. No Black Knight?”

“You can call me Ares.”

“Ooo. Thought I wronged.”

“No. But sometimes people have other names. Do you?”

“Yesh. Princess Cupcake Mama and Da-da call me.”

“Alright, Your Royal Highness, Princess. To what honor do I owe your visitation?”

“To give you a ribbon, Mister Ares!”

“Sadly I do not wear that, my lady.”

“Ooo. But look. Here here. Lacey pink. Pwetty?”

Ares mindlessly let the kid put the ribbon on his hand. Looking down just so he did not make the kid heartbroken, his blood froze. … Of course he recognized it. Her ribbon—her favorite typical ribbon—her favorite color with the lace accent she wore most of her days for her ponytail. He exchanged glances with the bar ladies, who looked equally shocked that even the snarky cook had to sit down a bit.

“… Pray tell, where did you get this?” he tried keeping his voice steady.

“Ehhh. Big wooden house nearby?”

“And who gave it to you—a beautiful lady dancer?”

The barmaid _gaped_ but the cook elbowed her. Did the Black Knight just—

“Nayyy Mister. Maybe the other mister wears ribbons? Why you no?”

“The other mister? Is this sold? Did he name a price?” he had to remind himself that it was her ribbon—her favorite ribbon—as to not clutching it so tightly like he was ready to choke another man _dead._

“Nayyy? He thought you would love eet.”

“Would you wait just a minute?” Ares turned around because the barmaid tugged on him.

“Let’s follow her,” she whispered. “She’d lead us to the kidnapper.”

“… No,” he whispered back. “The villain might harm her too and I won’t let him.”

“Oh—gods,” the cook muttered sorrowfully. “What do we do now?”

“Warfare,” Ares responded as his eyes burned with resolve. “He planned this perfectly. He wanted me to play chess with him—very well then.”

“Sounds like a dangerous opponent,” the barmaid murmured.

“And that is why he has to face me—not Lene!” the warrior nearly growled if the little girl didn’t peek at him. “Sorry. Where was I? Ah, right. Mind telling the other mister I hate it, Princess?”

“Uuu. You hate it?”

“Very much!” closing his eyes Ares threw the ribbon onto the floor. “He must bring me something else.”

“Ooo. I shall. Buh-bye, Mister Aresss.”

The girl left. And the fearsome mercenary quickly retrieved the ribbon off the floor, cleaning it with his own cape… in a rather sentimental way like brushing all the stains off it. He fiddled with the ribbon, letting it run around his fingertips—was she alright? What happened to her? How was she faring, after days in captivity like that? What did this so-called other-mister do to her? And why her? Why wouldn’t this person just come out that night, clashing blades and exchanging blows with him instead? The night was dark, perfect for a fight—or a hunt. Did this assassin-or-what-have-you treat her decently? Why was there no ransom notice or a letter telling him to come? Was it for money?

“Sir Black Knight?”

He gasped. And he griped the ribbon tighter out of reflex. The cook cautiously called on him, looking remorseful as well as amazed by what just rolled before their eyes. “Miss,” he nodded awkwardly.

“And now what?” the cook asked. “Why did you even say that? That’s clearly Lene’s ribbon!”

“To annoy him of course. I can’t even have that if I’m not supposed to flay him alive?” the warrior shrugged, trying so hard to sound deadpanned as he typically did. He knew he had to, otherwise—

“But he will hurt Lene more! I don’t understand you!”

“No. On the contrary, he knows he has to let her live.”

“How so?” the barmaid sighed, exasperated.

“He wanted me to do something. Why should I abide by my opponent’s demand?” he replied simply. “He’d send me more things to create an allusion that I have to be there. I will—but we will wait.”

“Until when?”

“Until everything is too dire to ignore, making him think he had the upper hand!”

“D-dire… like what? Her blood?!”

“No. It _can_ be fabricated.”

“Her dress?—Gods—no, for the love of anything holy—no.”

“No. It won’t work. If he dared to send me that, then frankly, Miss, he is stupid. What, to make me think he touched her? He could have, he could have not—it’s not hard to have a dress delivered while making her change or buying another similar dress. After all, men usually do not notice details and if that was what his idea to gloat on me, we would have heard about it from the first day.”

“… So you are saying you noticed.”

“… Does it matter?” he smirked.

“Answer, Sir Black Knight,” the barmaid grumbled.

“Well, I’m not losing what I marked.”

“Yeah, yeah, he is your prey, lion cub she called you—we got it. Duh.”

“I don’t mean him.”

“Eeeeh?”

“What?” he chuckled devilishly now, signaling the others to keep silent when the little girl was back.

“The other mister was so suuuure you’d love eet. These?”

He glanced at what the girl brought him… and smiled. Her purse and cloth bag. Right—he had her. And that only meant she was still alive. If she was dead, those things would barely have a meaning anymore—telling him that she was dead would have been enough to make him hot on his heels to pursue the truth. “… Unfortunately no, Princess. Thank you for being a great ambassador though.”

“Oh. Maybe the other mister should give you a cake?” the little girl mumbled. “I love cake.”

When she left, the bar ladies interrogated him again. “Why did you say so again?” they folded their arms impatiently. “Sir Black Knight—please, gods, don’t keep us in the dark like this!”

“This is the clue. I’m off to kill, ladies,” he grinned ferociously now. “And why, to annoy him much more, of course. But if he thought I was unperturbed, he would stop bothering the poor little girl because he knew that by then he had to find another way to make me fall into the trap. And judging from how quickly she returned, that means the captivity is close from here. By Hezul, this is hilarious—he almost, almost got me. But then again the safest place to hide is the most dangerous one too.”

“Yet you are heading there!”

“I won’t be the one in danger, though,” the warrior flashed another ominous, ominous leonine smirk.

* * *

 

He had recaptured her.

Instead of seating her on the bed, however, he took her to a garden at the backyard. Flowers blossomed under the sun, and he seated her on a decorated chair. Had she was not in this predicament and the teen was merely a neighbor who inherited a house from his late grandfather, she would sincerely compliment his small-yet-gorgeous garden. There were roses with a set of table and chairs for a relaxing teatime, and truly unexpected to her he did lay a teaset on the table.

She let out another muffled scream as he pinned her wrists down, again—crossing them before knotting a rope around them. Fastening her bonds to the base of the chair, the teen stopped for a while as if letting her assessing her predicament—he rendered her hands useless because she could not move them despite having them tied in front of her. To add more insult to injury, from afar a visitor would less likely notice that she was his captive because it would look like she was just sitting there, having tea with him like a guest.

He merely endured with a wince when she kicked his shin. “Would you want me to tie your feet as well?”

She paused. Another restraint would be horrible— _horrible._ At least now she got to sit instead of being tossed and having to curl for days on the bed like a hapless sack. Shaking her head in a dignified manner she then tilted her head to turn away from him.

“Good then. You probably want to know why I took you here?” the teen pulled a chair to face her, looking rather pleased that she was less defiant now. “Too bad, don’t you say? I begin to get used to having a roommate as well.”

She did not want to look at him.

“Don’t be so cold, Miss. Rest assured, I’m not interested—you are that beast’s acquaintance, anyway.”

And this time she did not want to surrender so easily. Not even after nearly making her escape. At least with the botched attempt she knew that there was hope that the teen was not that invincible without a flaw she could exploit. “Mm-hhh,” she growled under the gag, squealing and yelling to make a commotion. Restrained—again? _AGAIN,_ after four days in captivity?

“Can I help you?” with the same snarky tone she used on him, the teen pulled the cloth wad out.

“How long are you planning to keep me like this?” she whimpered.

“Why are you asking me? Shouldn’t you wonder why it takes so long for your beast to get you back?” the teen shrugged. “I brought you here because this is it—I sent your things to him. He’ll die today.”

“So finally you’d want him to fight you—after all these days,” she spat. “And having me to parade.”

“Well,” the teen shrugged. “May I entertain you with other news, though? He does not care.”

“What is… w-what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You heard me right—he does not care!” the teen cackled. “Everything I sent to him—he said he hated them. I suppose I can only send _a piece of you_ to convince him that I indeed have you here? My, I’m being so generous to that ungrateful beast. Why did he… ignore me like that? How—how dare he…”

The dancer paused. The teen looked so perturbed and restless… little by little his calm and calculating façade fell like stripped layers. She saw nothing but frustration in his eyes—the way he tried to hold still despite her tongue lashing at him, forcing him to have a conversation with himself which she by then was sure he had been evading for so long. The way he flatly responded her—an empty casket; a gravely-injured boy, nothing, nothing more than that… and now having to fight someone as caliber as the lion cub—someone older, more mature than him—someone who bore similar wound like he did, the teen was back to being a little boy once again.

“Don’t… don’t look at me like that,” the teen murmured. “Don’t, I said!”

“I pity you,” she repeated her line with a straight face. “You are no warrior, dear—a sad boy you are.”

“Perhaps,” the teen muttered again, and she could not unsee it—the hollowness in his flat tone, in his placid demeanor... somehow she wondered if he was ever hugged at all, the way she thought of the lion cub somehow. “A cowardice sad boy I might be—what of it? I’m still the one with power here. Tell me, what will aggravate the beast the most? What _piece of you_ that will? Should I send him your dress? Should I cut your hair, or spill your blood on my handkerchief?”

“You’re not—“ she heaved angrily. “… You are not going to lay a hand on me like that.”

“You said I hurt you regardless. What difference will it make?” the teen replied flatly then.

“No—HELP!!” she screamed, screamed with all her might like her throat was about to break. Violently tugging on the rope to the point of shaking the chair, she felt so exasperated. She nearly reached past her limit. All this exhaustion—no, desperation—

“No, I won’t do that, Miss. Will that ease your mind?” the teen sighed, rising to his feet.

“Help! Somebody, help me—!!”

“Please, no more of that,” the teen sighed—twice now, as he jammed the cloth back into her mouth. “I’ve been way too nice letting you read me like that. What about this—what if he truly doesn’t care?”

“Mmmmh,” she sighed heavily then.

“My sympathy, Miss. I know truth is hard to accept.”

“Hnnngh!” she shook her head violently. _It can’t be. But… can it be?_

There was a knock on the door, followed by something hard colliding against the floor. The teen chuckled bitterly the moment those sounds reached them. “See, my gardener is old. You can’t hope for an escape assistance from an old man who could barely open the door, can you?”

The dancer slumped in her seat. Defeat. Would this be the end? And she would have to endure this for… how many days again? Until he was satisfied? Until she begged him to kill her?

“I’ll check on the beast once again while you wait here, how about that?” the teen smiled. “And I’ll help you with the pastries later. Those biscuits are nice, you know. I hope you fancy hibiscus tea. Rather sour, but healthy. You must be exhausted, I’m certain.”

And gone he was.

“Well, hello, Dear Old Oliver!” she could hear the teen’s cheerful voice from the garden. “How about I give you a day off today? You’re loyal to the veins to my late grandfather. Give those old bones a rest?”

She sat weakly, her loose hair sprawled framing her face because he took her ribbon to send to Ares. She never felt so miserable in life like this. Must everything be conducted with… force? Was there no escape as he bragged to her?

She bent her back forward. _Come on, I’m a dancer,_ she thought desperately then. _I have flexible joints…_

She tried to bring her face close to her tied wrists. If she could pull the gag off her mouth, perhaps she could bite into the knot again to free herself like prior. The kid was not flawless. Not at all—she found a way once, she would find it again. And looking into his eyes alone she was sure his confidence was slowly crumbling. And this time she was not completely without assistance—the safest place to be is the most dangerous place to hide, the warfare maxim said? To hell with maxims and theories created by destructive men and twisted genius—she did not care about that right now; what she did, however, was thinking how hard she should slam that teapot against his head when she could cut herself free without killing him, perhaps. Or would she ruin him too much if she was to throw that warm liquid of a tea into his face? Would she _burn_ him?

The dancer whimpered. She would not fall again this time. She would not make the same mistake. And the garden was a wider, more-open space—she could run away from him instead of being backed into a corner all the time the way he cornered her when she was still held in the room…

… This silence was eerie, she thought, as her wrists grazed against each other. There was no sound. The teen had been rather cheerful to send the old gardener home—so what happened? She prayed the teen was indeed not as evil as she did gauge him to be—if he killed the old man… that would be too terrible. He might be crumbling inside and angry because her words got to him much more than he thought they would, but to take it on his loyal gardener? Really?

The dancer nearly slammed her temple against the table. Pausing a little bit to take a breath she tried paying attention to her surroundings once more—why was everything so silent? This was so unnerving…

Suddenly the connecting door to the backyard was yanked open.

“Move, boy.”

The dancer lifted her head.

… And she saw him. The Black Knight. He was no longer Death personified—he was Death. He did not bark or yell, but a glance was more than enough that his calmness contained destructive power within, like he collected all his threats to convert it into an explosive power he was more than ready to unleash on his opponent. The way he narrowed his eyes with a thirsty naked blade—he was not a cub—he was a lion, true lion on a hunt, flashing his fangs to signal to his prey that his hours were numbered.

Her lion held a very hungry Mystletainn with his right hand while his left bore the Demon Sword’s sheath, coarsely, sharply pointed at the teen’s throat, reducing the previously-confident lone wolf into a helpless hostage who could only gulp because the lion had his vocal chords at the mercy of his sword.

The teen’s eyes widened. “You—how did—!”

He had to swallow back some of it because the sheath precisely knocked against the middle of his throat, sending him to a merciless coughing spam as he gasped for breath.

“I am the one asking questions here.”

The dancer gasped.

“Where is she?” the lion asked in a calm tone. But there was a hurricane brewing under that still surface of the sea, and may the gods help the teen because right now the lion would not at all withdraw.

“Really, you barged in like some kind of a hero despite taking _days_ to uncover me—“ again, the teen stared in horror, breaking into a coughing fit when the sheath slammed against his sternum this time.

“You can only talk when I allow you to.”

The dancer tried to shake the table with her shoulders, causing one of the pastry containers to fall onto the ground. Sighing in relief because it did not break, she jolted when she heard someone calling her.

“New hairstyle, rabbit?”

He looked at her. And she looked at him back—her lion, her lion noticed she was there. He noticed her presence—the way he always. And she wondered why suddenly she wanted to yank his mullet while burying her face in his chest at the same time when he said that. The nickname, his presence… she did not realize how relieving it was to have them again after being deprived for four days, kept helplessly bound and gagged nearly all the time in a small room, in a place she did not recognize.

She nodded. She just wanted to tell him that _yes_ —it was her. It was her, and she had been waiting for him to get her back, because there were many things she wanted to ask him. Strangely enough as much as she typically half-begrudged him for using the nickname—the way he playfully begrudged her for being compared to a cat—this time she would rather hear it, again and again, knowing that it was indeed him who stood there ….

“Well, I’ve seen you now,” the fearsome lion chuckled. “Let’s go home?”

“Um—“ the dancer squirmed in her chair. _Really, Ares—can’t you see I’m restrained?!_

“Oh, right. I’ll cut you free after I’m done fertilizing these flowers with his blood and limbs—would you please wait a little bit longer? See, I’m supposed to be this old gardener he expected, you know.”

“Hnnn!”

“What—that’s too much?”

“Mm-hmm?” the dancer rolled her eyes at him.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t disturb the flowers?”

“Mm.”

“Sigh. Alright, alright…” the warrior acted like he was bored, although his eyes… twinkled.

“How long are you going to yap nonsense there, fiend?!” the teen lunged at him.

The warrior turned around in godlike speed. Evading the blow coming at him he conveniently hammered his blade hit against the base of the teen’s silver sword, bouncing back the power coming from that slashing cut. When the teen recovered from the counterattack and was about to launch another strike, the lion, however…

She _stared_ at him.

He made a last-second decision, quickly bringing himself down. Taking the teen by his waist the lion let out a growl as if he summoned the strength he needed. In a split second he swiped the teen off the feet, his arm locking the teen across the shoulder and the chest while another caught him on the inner thigh. With such powerful move he threw his opponent down, to the disbelief look of the lone wolf when the warrior completed his attack by hammering Mystletainn against his cape, just merely centimeters away at the nape of his neck, nailing the teen’s movement by pinning him to the ground.

The teen grunted. The throw-down was vicious, but being pinned down with Mystletainn was another. Embarrassment and vengeful anger formed a mixed expression he wore on his face, and the worst of everything he could not move—the warrior set Mystletainn in a diagonal manner forming an acute angle to the opposite of the teen, so not only he had to stay still to keep his head unscratched, he could not reach for the sword to free himself.

And just like that the lion exhaled, like understanding his mission would be complete here, with most of his anger oozing out of his pores. Crouching, he examined the opponent he took down…

“What are you waiting for, beast—finish me off!” the teen shouted at him. “Finish me off like a beast you are. Your sword feeds on blood—your entire being smells like murder!”

“… Why?”

The teen paused. A moment later he spat at him.

But the warrior in question merely wiped his face with his gloved hand. “Why her?” without any trace of anger he asked again. “Why must you cause her distress when it is me that you want?”

The dancer clutched her dress tightly. He asked a question indeed. And they said he was a beast. Beasts were not supposed to ask and talk—

“… I want you to feel what I do,” the teen replied bitterly. “I want to deprive you of your companion—the way you deprived me of everything—everything I had, everyone I knew. I’ve been watching you since I got to see you. I’ve carved your image in my mind the day I began training. I want you miserable!”

“And why again?”

“Why?! I see now—you’ve killed so many people that they were nothing but faceless shadow to you, is that it?!” the teen wanted to hammer his fist against the warrior, but Mystletainn nailing his cape prevented it. “My father was my pride—a knight in service of the proud Thracian dragons!” the teen yelled, his voice sounding so, so coarse now. “The day he fought in Leonster—and I heard about you, the inheritor of the Demon Sword, who else if it was not you?! I got so angry at the Miss there for daring enough suggesting that you still have a heart; that you can’t be ruthless—tell me, what is it if not a ruthless beast—fiend—to scorch a village full of ordinary civilians to ashes?! And yet now you want to sound so dashing, sparing folks and talking sweet—how—how dare you, Black Knight, how dare you!!”

“Leonster?”

“Finally remembering something, aren’t you,” the teen cackled bitterly. “Why don’t you just die?! Why don’t you die, for the sake of humanity—for the greater good?!”

“Mmmh!!” the dancer yelled from the chair. Such vicious words, so sharp and hurtful… and the lion did not say anything, although she would bet on all her chances that he was not as unaffected as he displayed, that she believed. If Ares was so easily surprised and impressed each time people were being nice to him, like he was not even supposed to be engaged more than being tolerated—like there was nothing about him besides his prowess, nothing at all, then…

“You won’t fight me, I know,” the teen smiled wryly. “You would say I’m just a boy and walk away. So I figured if I take her, it at least would give you enough reason to engage me.”

“… I see,” the warrior pulled Mystletainn off the ground, allowing the teen to move again. “Stand up.”

“Make me, fiend.”

“Stand up, so you can fight me—fair and square this time.”

The dancer gasped.

“Can you?” why, the lion even gave his hand!

The teen glared sourly at him. Swatting the warrior’s hand roughly, he pulled himself back up, tightly gripping on his silver sword. “You’ll regret not killing me when you had the chance to.”

They fought. The teen lunged at him, shoving a raging thrust demanding his neck. The warrior merely neutralized the incoming blow by parrying before rotating the sword to lock his opponent’s swords arm as he pushed back a strike. The teen grunted when Mystletainn tore into his cape, but not wanting to miss a chance he rolled the remnant of the fabric, twisting it in a way to disarm the lion.

Ares gasped a little when he felt Mystletainn was being pulled out of his hand. He looked into the teen’s eyes, finding a glint of sadistic confidence manifested in the wide smug grin he wore on his face. Meanwhile he was left with a sheath. Mystletainn landed somewhere close to the restrained dancer’s feet, and judging from her reaction, she was more than worried.

Nobody ever disarmed her lion like that before…

_My cub, in a fight one must be focused. Do not ever take your opponent lightly; gloating is dishonorable._

The warrior closed his eyes.

_Father, I…_

The teen charged at him again, and he blocked the attack with his sheath. He felt it—the pure power pushing him to the back of his feet, backing him into a corner with roses behind him. He saw the dancer tugging on her bonds, letting out a muffled yelp when her forehead collided against the side of the table to reach for the Mystletainn.

“What’s wrong, fiend?! I told you, you will regret letting me alive!”

_… I’m no Lionheart…_

He pushed back. And the teen kneed him in the solar plexus. For a moment he had to deeply inhaled if he still wanted to salvage his stance, otherwise he would have been laying cold on the ground.

_You are the funniest Nordion I’ve served so far._

_What?_

_The dame is right. Such a cat._

_Hey—_

_Of course you are no Lionheart, Prince Ares._

_I—_

_But aren’t cats and lions related?_  
  


_Shut up—_

_So that’s why you could not harness me against him._

_Mystletainn, you brat—_

_Meow._

“I see. One kick is not enough to make you out of breath? Have another then!”

_My cub, in a fight one must be focused._

Ares landed a sharp stare. The teen kept him pressed against the wall, and he wondered how long until his sheath gave up. But this was the sheath of Mystletainn—a blade preserved and prevailed for generations be it in time of peace or chaos. The teen lifted his knee again—

_Do not ever take your opponent lightly;_

He had to find a way. If he let loose of his sheath grip, the silver sword would claim his life. But if he did not anticipate the kick, he would be out cold running out of breath. The warrior waited. The teen brought his knee to attack his solar plexus again. He only needed an ideal room—a distance between attacks so he could…

“Futile, Black Knight! I promise you I’ll let her go, so rest in peace then!”

 _There it is,_ the warrior thought. When the teen’s knee was merely an inch away from his chest, he shifted his grip on the sheath… and brought it downwards, thrusting it against his opponent’s thigh, mirroring the movement he taught the dancer prior.

The teen yelped in pain. The sheath got him where it hurt—and he could no longer have the strength to stand up. Horrified, his body tumbled on the ground, to the embrace of bed of roses waiting at his feet. The warrior slapped his temple with the sheath, causing a paralyzing dizziness to keep him in place while the lion simply walked to retrieve the sword without saying a word…

_Gloating is dishonorable._

“… Damn you.”

Ares turned around. The teen cussed, pushing himself to crawl back to get to him. His move limped, however, and he staggered and tumbled while forcing himself to get up.

“Stay put, boy.”

“Don’t call me that—don’t you… don’t you ever!”

“Your joints need time to recover. Do not waste your talent like this.”

“Damn you. Damn you, Black Knight—damn you—!”

“Mmph!” the dancer jolted when the teen lunged at him again. But the warrior merely swayed his body a little bit, causing the teen to catch wind and slammed hard against the chair where she was restrained.

Meanwhile the lion got his sword back…

“I’m not done with you yet!” the teen’s voice tore the sky above them.

“But I am,” the warrior spoke firmly, making a quick motion with his sword. “Untie her if you will.”

Both the dancer and the lone wolf gasped.

“Do not withdraw your head—my sword is naked, pointed straight at your neck,” the lion hissed again. “Hate me with all your life—I don’t care. But she is out of question, so do as I say.”

The teen grumbled. He complied, however. “… I never wanted to lay a hand on her in the first place,” he murmured with croaked voice, unknotting the rope binding her wrists. “… But when I saw her, I got reminded of you…”

The dancer rubbed her wrists. Finally free at last—

“I said it many times already, Miss—“ the teen whispered, pulling the gag out of her mouth. “And I mean it this time. I’m sorry. Forgive me, please—y-you are right, I’m not more than a… pathetic coward…”

“Ares,” the dancer whispered shakily, cupping her mouth like she was utterly relieved—first to be able to truly hear her own voice calling his name, then to really reach him there, and the fact that her lion _still_ did not kill despite everything—

The warrior exhaled. And truth came down like a thunderbolt.

“I did not kill your father.”

The teen gasped again.

“If your father was with the wyverns…” he closed his eyes, imagining a torched mansion, imagining his mother’s trembling hands, carrying him as her frail body kept running from the advancing army. When she kept kissing him again and again just so he did not cry or wail, when the kind old man he got to call as grandfather locked the door behind them, welcoming his death like a true nobleman of Leonster. “… If your father was a Thracian knight, chances are it was he who destroyed my mother’s birth home.”

“W… what?!”

“King Travant of Thracia invaded Leonster, burning the palace as the Empire pressed on the country,” the warrior spoke again in a pained voice. “… I lost everyone I knew to a war.”

“… You’re lying.”

“The mercenary chief there is not my father.”

“No—“

“My mother was a Leonsterian noblewoman, distressed and driven to her early grave because the raid consumed her soul and body inside-out.”

“NO—“

“… I hailed from Agustria and my astute father sent us away when conflicts brewed. He was right about the war, but utterly wrong when he said he would pick us up. I did not see him again ever since.”

“NO!!”

“… Yes,” the warrior whispered, patting the teen on the head. “It’s a yes, kid.”

“Liar! You are supposed to be a beast!!”

“I wish that was the case myself.”

“No—“

“But listen here. You and I are not the same,” the lion stated, firmer and more menacing this time. “For instance, I _know_ exactly who I want to fight. And I do not need a hostage to challenge him to fight me.”

“I—“

“And I take risks. You are just a boy still.”

The teen growled. Sobbing painfully he hammered his weak fists into the ground… until the warrior snatched him by the collar and dumped him on the chair.

“She said not to ruin the flowers.”

* * *

 

She walked slowly, tailing him behind. Late morning breeze blew against her hair, billowing her loose strands. Somehow she chuckled a little. The freedom felt so great. Feeling the sun on her skin instead of helplessly looking at it without being able to utter a word, confined, restrained and afraid…

“Something the matter?” he turned around, instantly getting tongue-tied somehow. She wore such soft expression on her face, looking at peace despite the experience she just had. The dress flew gracefully as she tucked her hair strands behind her ears, and he could not say it—how relieving it was to see the familiar scene back— _and probably better,_ he thought cheekily, looking at her loose hair again.

“I’m just glad,” she murmured gently. “In a way I feel like you actually understand how frustrated he was…"

“It would be a lie if I said no. In a way, he reminded me of my own grudge."

“Let's think again when you get to track him then?” she patted his hand. “And for now, let's take it easy?"

“… I suppose. Probably," he sighed, smiling a little. “I really need to thank you for many things.”

“Hnnn? No need!” she winked at him. “You really are so kind, you know~? Gods, I really thought you would kill him…”

“I did want to, but then I saw you.”

“Oooh, really~?”

“… Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Of course because it is so kind of you to be mindful of me! Hehehe, what is this about not being a knight, your father sounded like a great man! Now that you are like this, there is no mistake that you truly are his son, riiight~?”

“… I-is that so.”

“Your face is rather red… ”

“W-well. Again, I'm not kind,” he feigned a sour tone. “… Above all, I’m truly sorry for taking days to track you…”

“Mm-hmm! No problem! At least you are here…” smiling, she shook her head, quickly turning it into a pout because what she said herself made her blush. “I'll pretend I didn't know you broke that house's door with a single kick, though.”

“Well, I'm _rather_ angry, you see…” the warrior could not resist a smirk, gently ushering her to his mount.

“Gosh, I even miss your horse! Hello~? How are you, Ares' long-lost brother~?”

“Well, I was informed that the gardener was an impaired old man,” he scratched his head awkwardly, smiling a little when she enthusiastically ran her fingers on his mount’s mane. “I couldn’t fight him, so…”

“See…”

“Hmmm?” he looked at her. She pointed at his nose, looking like she had something else to say. So he relented, arching his head to level her eyes. Unexpectedly, however—

“Y-you are so kind! And I'll repeat this again and again until you are fed up hearing my voice—you are so kind, so kind, so kind…” her voice trembled yet again as she took his face with her hands. “He is so wrong about you and I know that. I made sure to tell him how wrong he was each time I had the chance. And please—please ignore what he said—the world is not going to be better if you die. T-that’s stupid. I don’t forgive him for saying that to you, I—“

“Ssh. It’s alright, rabbit. I know what this job makes me. Again—better me than you.”

“I don’t like that!”

“But it’s okay for me, really…”

“Nooo.”

“… Ouch—”

“Hnnn. Dodge a bit!”

“No.”

“Are you sulking like a cat again that you just accepted me yanking your mullet…”

“... Probably I’m a cat.”

“Oooh gods, you did not contest me!! Are you alright?”

“Finer than fine wine!”

“But… sigh. Ares?”

“What, rabbit?”

“Why do you keep smiling?”

“Oh. Do I?”

“I’m standing here right before you, duh—you think I didn’t see that?” she huffed.

“… True. You are right here before me…”

“Hnnn? Hey!” the dancer gasped when the warrior took her hand, holding her by the waist to hoist her on horseback. “… Oh.”

“Missed my horse, you said?” he chuckled, mounting to position himself…

… Behind her.

“You miss your horse as well?”

“No? I did not lose him.”

“What?”

“Rather than that, want to eat cupcakes, rabbit?” he cleared his throat then.

“With you?” she eyed him suspiciously. “But you don’t like sweets.”

“Indeed I don’t!”

“… Yet you asked me to eat… cupcakes?”

“I did!”

“I don’t understand,” the dancer pondered.

“Doesn’t matter!”

“… You keep grinning like a cat.”

“Doesn’t matter either!”

“Hnnn. I don’t know what prompted this, but alright, I guess,” the dancer pinched his nose.

“Thank you.”

“… You are treating me to cupcakes yet you are thanking me?”

“I believe so!”

“Hehehe~ why, Ares, meow, you are so nice today,” she giggled a bit. “But you are kind anyway, so I’m not surprised, you know? Oh, right! I recall the baker at the market does make cupcakes with cinnamon, dark chocolate, and even mint sometimes! That should not be too much for you, I suppose? Actually, I don’t mind eating them as well. Just because I like it sweet does not mean I can’t eat anything else, you see~ actually, yes, dark chocolate is not bad! Mint is refreshing too, so what about…”

She stopped talking because his gentle chuckles came out.

“Hnnn. Sorry for chirping I guess, I’ll shut up so you can ride conveniently.”

“Don't. Keep talking, please.”

“Keep talking?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm. Okay, where were we? Oh, right, mint. Also, if you don’t like the one at the market, the bakery at the outskirts is a contender! I swear they do magic there, it’s a bit far compared to the market, but the price and taste are sooo worth it! So which one?”

“Whichever you choose.”

“And you’ll just follow?”

“Yes.”

“… Obediently?”

“Yes.”

“Gods! Even without wanting to curse white chocolate?!”

“Yes.”

“E-excuse me,” the dancer shot a _concerned_ look at him, feeling his forehead. “Normal temperature!”

“I told you I’m feeling so fine,” the warrior chuckled again, even more boisterously this time. However, his tone and eyes were equally… tender.

“Hold on. Ares, you wear my ribbon on your sleeve!” she gasped. “Oh—!”

“Steady, rabbit,” he really laughed this time, catching her when she tumbled. “And yes.”

“Hnnn. I’m sorry for troubling you, he kept me restrained all the time, so…” she murmured sheepishly. “I'm feeling rather… weary…”

“If you are too exhausted, I’ll help you,” he responded simply. “… I really can't imagine what you've been through. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry it took me longer.”

“You can help me with something else now though,” she sighed softly, toning down the sudden melancholic atmosphere brewing in her chest because he said that.

“And that will be?”

“Hnnn. Returning the ribbon, perhaps?”

“No.”

“… No?”

“Not today, rabbit,” he chuckled again, even more tender this time. “Not today.”

“… Ares?”

“Yes?”

“… You encircle my waist.”

“… Oh. And?”

“Um. I won't tumble again.”

“It really is alright—I'll catch you as always. And?”

“I-it's like you are hugging me, you know?”

“This way I know you are truly there, Lene. And?”

“… Tightly as well…”

“… Can you breathe?”

“Y-yes?”

“Good. And?”


	29. Zeal

They sat face to face that solemn night. Somber lantern light accompanied them, illuminating the table where they seated themselves in; eyes harbored against the board they had placed on the table. Two glasses of mead rested at their respective side—one near his right arm, another near her left—did not matter because none of them paid attention to it, for they had been facing the board seriously without taking their eyes off it, even if to glance at one-another.

That was until she took a piece off her own board, moving it forward that it crossed paths with his. Startled, he contemplated the piece she just took before returning his eyes to his own set of pieces—she had pushed a pawn further with a backup of another pawn just one tile at the back, to its right. The move forced his knight to divert if not withdraw.

“What’s the matter~?” her cheery tone startled him for the second time because more than five minutes had passed without him doing anything. “You are supposed to be good at warfare.”

“I’m decent at real-life situation,” he chuckled, taking his knight to withdraw, returning its position back beside the rook. “Here we go again.”

“Hnnn. Fair,” she moved her bishop to protect the exposed pawn now that its target left the battlefield.

He decided to eat the pawn with his own which covered the queen. “I suck at this one.”

“That created an opening but you are still holding,” she chuckled, pressing furthermore. Her white bishop moved on its course, two steps more ahead, diagonally treading on the tiles.

“Plan B then,” he shrugged, castling his king because she ventured forth. When she proposed a game, he expected her to bring cards as usual—at least that was the original plan before the barkeep merrily announced he found his old chessboard getting stuck under the counter. Unexpectedly, the dancer was the merriest of all folks to regard it as good news, even volunteered to have it cleaned. His surprise was doubled when she brought the chessboard, now as good as new, before him.

“I challenge you! Fight me,” she proudly announced, settling the board down.

“It’s been a long, long while since I even touched that,” he finished his dinner, mind traveling back into the past recalling Eldigan the Lionheart loved the game more than his best friends could even dream of, because usually that would be along with the itinerary his father proposed whenever Prince Quan of Leonster and… Lord Sigurd of Chalphy came to spend a leisurely time with the Lionheart.

Of course at that time he was still a child, too small to understand anything more than merry smiling faces and cheerful laughter exchanged between the Lionheart and his friends. Of course at that time he was barely a toddler, having to clutch on his mother’s dress most of the time because apparently even standing required a hard work from a small child, and his mother would always steer him out of the room where Lord Papa cozily rested himself in a comfortable chair, as calm as a peaceful ocean with a glass of red wine gracefully perched between his fingers. Nordion private common room with the warm fireplace and the painting of his aunt—Lady Lachesis—decorating the wall over it—came to life because the three gentlemen did not stop throwing jokes and chat. Sometimes he could hear Lord Sigurd’s grunting. Sometimes he could hear Prince Quan’s consoling tone. But his father would always smile so brightly, so free and happy that he was, contrasting the big regal painting decorating the wall facing the sofa that it did not take much to guess that he had played well.

And then he, nicely wrapped by Lady Grahnye’s loving arms, could see his mother’s expression lighting up as well—as warm as the fireplace in the room burned the woods for the occupants’ comfort. “Your father is always like that,” the Lady of House Nordion then said, tightening her embrace around him. “That one over there is what he treasures the most—friendship.”

“He cherishes you, Mama,” Little Ares chirped. “If he did not, I would be angry.”

“My, Ares. Don’t be angry at Lord Papa,” Lady Grahnye chuckled tenderly, running her fingers across the cub’s growing blond strands. “Of course Papa loves you. But even a lord and knight have friends he likes to mingle with, you know?”

“I don’t.”

“Sssh. Why are you so stubborn, my cub?”

“Because I don’t have,” Little Ares pouted. “You said I’d be a knight when I got older.”

“Indeed. And a fine of that is,” Lady Grahnye rubbed his back. “And Papa started teaching you to fight?”

“Yes. I like swords!”

“Then what is the problem, darling?”

“Since I’d be a knight and ruler of Nordion like Lord Papa, I’m supposed to have friends to play with,” Little Ares blabbered, fidgeting with the decorative ribbon on his mother’s neck. “But they don’t want to.”

Lady Grahnye stopped moving.

“I’m the Lionheart’s cub,” the little lordship went on, oblivious that what he said struck his mother like a wave. “They said they loved me so they did not want to tire me out, Mama. Yet according to you, Papa’s friends love him too much that they would endlessly accompany him.”

“Oh, Ares…”

“If I want to play fighting, they easily surrender. No fun,” the cub continued. “If I want to play in the kitchen, they never let me work. If I want to play house, I always get to be king. I want to bake mud cookies and leafy salads too. Can I bake mud cookies here? You are a queen, Mama. So I can, right?”

“Sadly it will dirty everything, my cub—Papa loves our carpets, so no.”

“Perhaps I should play chess too so I can be there with Papa,” the restless Nordion heir took his flight off his mother’s embrace, tiptoeing to spy on the common room. “Then I’ll beat Uncle Wanwan like Papa.”

“It’s Quan, Ares.”

“Look, Papa made Uncle See-See cry,” the cub, not caring about names, tugged on his mother’s dress. Lady Grahnye peeked in, curiosity got the best of her that she too, tiptoed around to spy on the Lionheart. Her cub was right—Sigurd of Chalphy fisted his hands deep into his own hair, sighing in disbelief as his eyes were glued on the chessboard. Meanwhile the Lionheart cackled boisterously, his fingers forming a letter L he pointed at the Chalphian nobleman.

“He who laughs first loses first, my dear friend!”

“Oh, so brooding granted you power?”

“What makes Lord Papa so good?” Little Ares returned his attention to his mother. “Mystletainn?”

“Ares, that is a weapon and not for playing…” Lady Grahnye sighed, scooping him back into her arms. “Let’s see. I suppose it’s not surprising for your father to be good at board games as well.”

“Why?”

“Because your father is a knight above knights,” the Nordion consort responded with a soft smile. “That means he is ever steeled for duties. To fight on behalf of the king has always been his calling and there is nothing in this world can stop him doing what he knows best. The Lionheart is Agustria’s best Sword!”

“When I’m king, I’ll protect Mama.”

“I’ll be waiting, Ares.”

“I declare this place to be freed of the oppression of insects because you hate them.”

“My noble lion king!”

“And everyday is my birthday!”

“Now wait, Ares.”

“But I’ll be king?”

“Then you will be centuries-old in no time,” Lady Grahnye giggled. “Need a better plan, darling.”

“Alright, how about this, Mama—I’ll put Papa under house arrest.”

“You will… what?” Lady Grahnye gasped. “Why, Ares?”

“Papa will stop working,” the cub replied confidently. “Then I’ll put Mama under house arrest too, so you can have hoooliday with Papa! And then both of you can play with me and eat a lot of cakes.”

“Oh, dear son. That does not need imprisonment,” Lady Grahnye’s stunned expression quickly melted into series of gentle laughter. “Also, _many_ cakes.”

“I’m king. It will be _a lot_ of cakes.”

“Okay, Your Little Majesty.”

“No need to curtsy, Mama.”

“You said you were king?” Lady Grahnye smiled.

“But you get tired easily, more so this way,” the cub took his mother’s hand. “I saw Papa carrying you.”

“Ooh, no. Regal lion cub should go to bed before his parents do—don’t peep at us like that.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m not king yet?” Little Ares clasped his chin. “I’m not big enough to carry Mama.”

“Someday you will be, darling.”

“And someday Papa will be too old to carry Mama.”

“Yes, and that will be your chance to shine,” Lady Grahnye ruffled his mane again. “Here is a better idea. How about we kiss Papa good night and I tuck you into bed? In the morning you will have a better idea as king than merely placing Lord Papa under house arrest.”

“Okay,” the cub relented. “But what if I’m not sleepy yet?”

“Let’s see…” Lady Grahnye held the cub tighter. “Let’s play chess?”

“Ooooh!”

“Right? Then this way you can play with anyone you want.”

“Including the kitchen boy?”

“Definitely!”

“And Altena?”

“Sure, why not?”

“And…”

“And someday you will sit there where Lord Papa is right now,” the Nordion consort scooped the cub into her arms. “You, your cherished friends, Mystletainn…”

“I’ll be so old. Like Papa.”

“Papa isn’t old!”

“And I can drink?”

“Mind yourself, though!”

“And I can play with old Altena?”

“Of course, why don’t you be her friend forever?”

“With Uncle See-See’s son?”

“If he has one?”

“Will I have a wife?”

“Sure—wait, what, my cub?”

“Do not worry Mama, you are irreplaceable, so you will be Super Queen. Better than just queen!”

“I’m most delighted to hear that, Ares.”

“Good friends,” the cub whispered once again, peeking into the common room. This time, however, the Lionheart tilted his head, waving at the little lone cub who had been watching by the threshold.

“Come here, son,” he smiled. “Not sleepy yet?”

“Lord Papa, you are under house arrest.”

“I am what?”

“You work too much,” the cub begrudgingly pulled his father’s mullet. “But I’ll let you keep Mystletainn.”

“I see. Here, sit on my lap that is your throne,” Eldigan picked up his son from under. “There you go.”

“Lord Papa, as my prisoner you should not lie.”

“How did I lie, my cub?”

“That is not my throne. That is Mama’s.”

There was silence, with Eldigan frantically emptying his red wine in one take while Lady Grahnye rushed in, shooting him a disappointed-but-not-surprised look. “I told you to lock the door last night.”

“You made too many noises, how could I tell which one was which?”

“Eldie!” the Nordion consort slapped his arm.

“What?”

“Lord,” Quan sighed while Sigurd took turn cackling so hard that he rolled off the chair.

“You spoke of wisdom,” the blue-haired lord grinned. “But sometimes he who defies the rules, wins.”

“I disagree,” Eldigan darted a meaningful look onto the chessboard. “Your king is still on check, Sigurd.”

“True, Eldie,” Sigurd casually flailed his hand around. “But sometimes you need to think outside the box,” he moved a piece, instantly killing the knight who cornered his king. “Consider withdrawing next time!”

“A knight does not retreat.”

“Then perhaps you should,” Sigurd fiddled with the horse piece now firmly rested in his hand. “See, now that I flanked you like this, what did you gain?”

“Safety,” Eldigan castled his pieces. “… Of the king.”

 

“Ares?”

“… Oh.”

A soft thumping sound could be heard when the warrior accidentally dropped a knight piece he had been mindlessly clutching. Picking it up, he mumbled a simple apology to her, contemplating the board he failed to concentrate on. “… Where was I?”

“Getting checked,” she guided his eyes to the board.

He followed. That was true—the dancer managed to penetrate his line of defense, because her white bishop continued with its assault against his lines, leaving another more open space because the pawn which was supposed to guide it had fallen victim to her pursuit. Her bishop, with her queen shadowing it, was merely a diagonal box away from maiming his king.

“I surrender.”

“This fast?” she touched his hand from across the table.

“Who cares about the king,” he mumbled, hand stretched to reach for the mead on the table.

“Ares…”

“Sorry. I remembered something that I got too preoccupied with it,” he casted another apologetic look at her. “Let’s play again? One versus zero for you. See, I suck.”

She smiled. “I’ll hear you if you want to talk,” her thumb gently brushed against his for a second. “But I was about to tell you that it was my drink that you took.”

“… Oh,” the Black Knight looked down, quickly returning the mead he grabbed. “I’m sor—“

“Ssh. It’s alright,” she quickly stopped him, her hand gently taking a hold of his wrist before he could put the glass back. “I thought you would enjoy this considering you are a warrior.”

“Strategists of the armies plan. I don’t,” he looked outside for a moment, his eyes being miles away, however. The dancer looked at him more attentively this time—Ares sometimes had those moments when… simple things seemed to transport him back to a realm deeper than the ocean she could not yet enter. How he would stare into a distance which made her wondering whether it was to get a glimpse of a future or revisiting something that had long been gone. If only she knew which one was it so she could help him navigating his way from there—venturing deep forth to find an answer, or to pull him back before shards of the past shattered his soul again…

“But you fought effectively,” she tried, maintaining the comforting tone and rehearsing that simple thumb-rubbing gesture to console him. The lion seemed to be troubled, and if it left him spacing out like that, perhaps the concern was bigger than what she anticipated.

“I need to make a quick decision each time anyway,” he said. “I’ve been in and out war councils for sure, but…” he darted a quick glance on her thumb brushing his that she withdrew, embarrassed. “… It’s for victory, isn’t it,” his voice too was distant. “When we aim to end a battle, we aim to score a victory. We want something effective—and often times, planning through that board is not enough.”

“I heard tacticians do like board games to strengthen their minds,” she responded, quickly hiding her shy expression behind the glass she grabbed to drink.

“Those are snobs,” he scoffed out of reflex. “Even if it was true, nothing compares to being at the field.”

“You strategize too,” she tried again, understanding that the lion cub was… restless. “Do you think that I am mocking you just because you lost a match?” chuckling to lighten up his mood, she poked his chest with her index finger. “Even if I teased you, you have your answer—real-life situation doesn’t compare.”

He seemed to start catching up that she tried to console him, regardless. The unpleasant twitch on his brows loosened a bit, the way his brooding demeanor began to relax a little that he could eventually spare her a small smile. “No,” he finally replied. “Only expected—you are the smarter one here.”

“Then let’s pick up where we left,” the dancer suggested. “It’s only a check. You can still fight.”

“But I already surrendered,” he looked on the board again.

“That can be annulled,” she grinned. “Play me again?”

“… No,” he contemplated the black horse piece he still clutched. “My surrender gave you victory, but at least the king is not the only one left standing on that board.”

“Ares…”

“A country without a king is still a dwelling,” he mused, again, glancing outside. “But a country without people, what do you call it?”

She gently touched him again. Even until they both finished the drinks, one of the waiters had to remind him to return the horse piece into the box so the chessboard could be neatly returned to the barkeep. At that time he appeared even miles-away-further, so much that he profusely apologized for dropping the piece when she tapped his shoulders.

* * *

 

He wiped his forehead. The undershirt he was wearing was drenched in sweat, and the bandages he used to wrap his knuckles had changed colors—dirt stains and dark spots appeared all over the rolls, coming from some sack he hanged over the tree and filled with sands to train. Meanwhile Mystletainn faced downwards, its tip piercing into the earth—muzzled but ready because he would always, always anticipate various scenarios of ambush and fights even during the days where he wasn’t on mission.

_“Papa, you are under house arrest! You work too much!”_

_“I am what?”_

How many nights had that night been gone—no, robbed from him? The night after playing chess with the dancer Lene he faced his mirror, eyes concentrating on it so hard that even his cat gave him a judgmental look. He curved his lips, forcing a smile before the mirror; stunned for a moment as his off-tune laughter began coming out.

Ha-ha.

Ha-ha-ha.

Ha—

_“Lord Eldigan, milady. He is under imprisonment for—treason—“_

_“HE IS WHAT?!”_

That night he stopped making the face. Dressing down to a simple undershirt and knee-length shorts to sleep, he touched his hair. The simple gesture was meant to free his strands from getting caught by the collar of his shirt, but—

_“You look like your father so much, my cub.”_

_“Will I have his face when I grow up?”_

_“Mm-hmm?”_

_“Then what will I be, Mama?”_

_“Handsome?”_

He took a simple comb to help smoothing those messy strands.

_“AAAAAAAAAH!!—LORD GOD—!!”_

_“Mama!! Mama, are you hurt?”_

He felt around his cheeks. At that time Lady Grahnye had absent-mindedly clutched on to him without even realizing where she had touched him. It hurt, he thought—his mother’s desperate fingers clawed around him, holding onto him so hard like she was trying to salvage something with all her broken soul.

_“… Forgive me, my cub…”_

_“I-it’s alright, Mama. I am Lord Papa’s son, Crusader Hezul’s child! Lean on me, Mama, I won’t yelp.”_

_“No—no, Ares, they… Eldie…”_

He put the comb down, recalling a caring chambermaid in service of his grandfather in Leonster back then would praise how beautiful his mane was each time she attended to him. He did not understand—at that time his mother began to withdraw, sending him to sleep in another room, crying when she was about to sleep, crying again when she woke up, crying again when he visited, crying again when—

_“Please, daughter, live—live, for the sake of your son. Please.”_

_“Papa, I can’t bear to see Ares—“_

_“I understand, dear, but he needs you more than anything now.”_

_“They are so—so alike—“_

_“… Shouldn’t that help you a little bit, daughter? He lives in Ares. That is his footprint in flesh and blood.”_

_“They said—Papa, he has the most beautiful golden strands I’ve ever seen in a man. How… how messy it would have been since he—“_

The Black Knight Ares darted a vicious punch against the sack.

_“Grandmama?”_

_“Yes, my doll?”_

_“What is decapitation?”_

“… Fuck,” Ares sighed, realizing he missed his target so badly that he tripped and smashed his face against the tree where he hanged his target. Lying sprawled over the sands he watched the sky, wincing—the sunlight was too strong, too hot for his eyes …. Picking himself up once again, he hummed, managing his breathing and shifted his concentration back to the target.

_“Perhaps you should surrender, Eldie.”_

He already did, he thought, releasing a powerful blow against the sack. The Lionheart said a knight did not retreat. Yet he loaded his wife and heir into a carriage, under the tight-yet-caring protection of his prided cross knights, telling them to never stall or stop until both reached their supposed safe destination in Leonster; in the comfort of the red-roofed manor.

_“I met you in the middle of a snowing night. I will find you again.”_

_“… Eldie…”_

_“The squad accompanying you is made up of the most versatile warriors I handpicked myself—they will guard you and Ares with their lives. What should I bring when I pick up you and our cub in Leonster?”_

_“Y-yourself. Sorry for being selfish.”_

_“You are a knight’s wife, Grahnye.”_

_“I know. It’s just that…”_

_“… Understood, dear. I’ll pick you up personally when this is over.”_

_“… You are smiling.”_

_“A knight can smile too.”_

_“Then what else… can he do?”_

_“… Kissing his wife?”_

Ares lunged. The vicious blow created a sturdy impact which caused the rope which held the sack in place gave up. He jumped backwards when the sack hit the ground; the sands filling it exploded that they were scattered all around him. He panted. As the sand grains began to dissipate into a pile of mess on the ground, something else was revealed before him…

… Her. The dancer.

She smiled at him, casting the sand grains off her. He contained a growl in his throat, slamming his buttocks against the ground. His water canteen was near him, just right under the piercing Mystletainn. “I was a bit worried,” she spoke softly, strolling closer to sit beside him.

“Don’t.”

“Eh…?”

He peeked at her. “… The dress,” he mumbled under his breath. “… Will get dirty.”

“… Oh,” she hid a gentler smile. “Look at me?”

He followed obediently. His eyes widened when the dancer casually dropped her weight beside him.

“Already dirty.”

“… Alright,” he, too, smiled then.

“You are bleeding, you know,” she took his face, catching him by his chin to tilt his face. There was a clear trace of awkwardness on his face when she took over the towel he had used to dry himself as he mumbled incoherent rejection— _I’m sweaty, alright_ , he said; _And then what,_ she said— _If you didn’t sweat after training like that then you need a healer._ So he could only sit still, letting her taking that towel, unfolding it to fold it back to have the untouched side ready to use.

He closed his eyes without being asked when she began to clean his blood.

“… There?” she handed the towel back at him.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “And it’s okay, this is just a scratch.”

They sat in silence, contemplating on the flowing river. They had been here many times—after all, this was her favorite spot to unwind, as it was his to train. The tall tree with nice, sturdy stump where he would lean on when watching the river was still there. It was also in this sanctuary that he began training her. It was there when he had a major debate with her for the first time, and definitely it was also there that he and the dancer could only threw dumbfounded stares against each other—when he pulled her into the waters by accident, thinking she was about to drown. This fertile part of the dry Darna reminded him of… the lusher part of Nordion—of the nice apple trees during spring, of the flowerbeds his mother loved, of the rose garden his father was proud of. And then…

“… When the knight saved the king, it was a duty, right?”

She tilted her head at him.

“I didn’t steal that horse piece,” he grumbled, fishing cheery giggles out of her.

“You are an honorable warrior, not a thief.”

“I steal lives, though.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“… You are so calm.”

“Remember when you killed the serial killer who broke into the bar?” she asked. “Remember when you—mad as _fuck_ —still spared the bandits who robbed my favorite textile shop? Remember when…”

“No, I do not want to.”

“Then perhaps you should, because… um?” the dancer stopped talking because Ares clamped his hand over her mouth.

“… Sorry, I…” withdrawing, he gazed into the river once again. “Those things are unpleasant.”

“Does hearing them again… burden you?”

He threw a gravel into the river. “I mean for you, rabbit. Don’t force yourself relishing them.”

“… Oh,” the dancer relented. “See, honorable.”

“Why?”

“You preserved lives too?” she chuckled. “Sooo~! Your king surrendered to keep the court alive.”

“Yeah. Not so chivalrous, isn’t it?”

“If I may…”

“You may.”

The dancer smiled, contemplating the formidable warrior before her. His response was quick even before she managed to reason anything. “That one just now,” she giggled, ticking his nose. “Example A!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she, following him, also threw a gravel into the water. “In the eyes of the fools, your king would be considered… what, cowardice? But he endured all the insults and perceived weakness with dignity and pride because all he was concerned about was saving his own people. That’s badass.”

“… Hmmm,” he glanced at her. “You think so?”

_“This is madness. His Majesty never wishes for any confrontation against Grannvale.”_

_“… The Agustrian army starts making preparation, Eldie…”_

_“… Dear Hezul. Can’t those with a crown sit for a little while and think of… people?”_

_“What will you do?”_

_“… I am a knight, Grahnye. My place has always been at the frontier.”_

_“I see…”_

_“Nobody will subdue Agustria on my watch.”_

_“I believe you.”_

_“… Let’s just wait and see for a moment. It’s foolish to fight out of pure bloodlust, anyway.”_

_“Elliot mocked you. They called you…”_

_“He always does, though. It’s alright—what cuss word is it now, dear?”_

_“Good-for-nothing?”_

_“… Ah. That is new indeed.”_

_“… Eldie?”_

_“Pardon. Do I look forlorn?”_

_“No. I mean—I mean that was MY cuss word.”_

_“… Dear?”_

_“Against him. I—no, nobody insults you on my watch too.”_

_“… My Lioness. My darling, darling Lioness.”_

_“Sorry for the sudden decision.”_

_“I have you understanding me. Does anyone else even matter, at this point?”_

_“Your sister proposed something more creative, though.”_

_“Hmmm?”_

_“Ballsack.”_

_“… Gods.”_

_“I know, right?”_

_“Yours must have pierced better.”_

_“Oh—dear. I thought…”_

_“It’s alright. I like this Lioness better, too.”_

“Yes! Imagine, shielding so many people—just one person like that. Isn’t that admirable?” she winked at him, quickly stopping him when he cleared his throat as he reached for another gravel. “Eeeh, don’t!”

“Why, rabbit?”

“Have mercy on the fishes?” she took the gravel back from him.

“We already threw two, though,” he chuckled, but giving in, regardless. “Why now?”

“Hmmm. Because—“ she yanked his mullet. “This one to chastise you once is understandable. But two of that out of nothing is cruelty.”

“It’s alright,” he purposefully twirled his mullet before her. “Maybe you help them growing.”

“Nooo Ares,” she ruffled his mane. “Killing animal out of hunger is understandable. Abusing animal on a whim, what do you call such person again?”

“Mystletainn’s prey.”

“Nice answer,” she rolled her eyes at him, but her laughter broke regardless. “Okay, no—nice answer.”

“Thank you. I grew that myself,” he bowed, earning yet another mullet-yanking from her.

“Come on,” she stood up, taking him regardless. “I might win that chess match, but your decision is so brave. Honestly, that actually proves that you are a seasoned warrior, don’t you think~? Dying needs courage. But living needs something bigger than courage itself!”

“Ah…” he looked at her.

“Yes! Come on, come on~ get up, Ares, meow—hnngh—! Gods—“

“Be careful, rabbit.”

“Yes, yes, stand up—wha—?”

“Better,” he chuckled. “If you pulled me like that, your face would be on the ground.”

“It’s alright, I grew that myself too,” she returned his line, complete with his tone she copied, or his expression she mimicked. Grinning and surprised at the same time she truly did not expect the lion cub to actually lift her off the ground, strolling a few steps away from the pile of messy sand grains he spilled.

“This should be fine,” he nodded, returning her to land on her own feet where the ground was tamer—and definitely, without a pile of sand grains to potentially get her dress dirty. “Still, you give me too much credit. No matter how you look at it, I bet there will be disgruntling voice too. Everyone expected to die for the king, and for the chivalrous ones, choosing to leave is simply dishonorable.”

“Ah, still concerned about that?”

“… Maybe?” he contemplated on the Mystletainn.

_“As long as I have this, I will not lose.”_

_“… Will it heed you to slay your own friend, Eldie?”_

“Hnnn. But there is also this little important task people tend to forget about, you know~?”

“Ah. Which is, rabbit?” he walked slowly beside her, matching her paces.

She turned around. There was a soft smile on her face still, and her expression was still just as radiant as prior. However, beneath it all he could not ignore that the dancer was serious beyond her words could convey. “Living.”

“… Living?”

“Yes? And carry that legacy with you~!” she nodded enthusiastically. “When everything crumbles but you still remain there must be a reason.”

“What if it’s just Fate disliked me that much that I couldn’t—hmm,” he stopped talking in the similar manner like she did prior, because this time her palm hammered against his lips.

“Then Fate must have missed you because you are destined to do greater things,” she smiled. “Because you are special like that. Because there is something only you can do.”

“Mmm. Which is?”

“I don’t know?” she laughed. “So you better stay alive until you figure it out, don’t you think~?”

“… Not much of a knight still, aren’t I?”

“Ares, meow, people did what they considered the best to overcome their situation. Survivors like you who defined your own kind of knighthood are not any less than those honorable knights who chose to sacrifice their lives back then. After all, isn’t that the reason—love?”

“… Love, rabbit?”

“Yes! If they don’t have so much faith in the brighter future they believe the upcoming generation can uphold, they would not be standing tall to look Death in the face with unparalleled courage, right? And you just do you. After all, living life itself is already an act of rebellion, come to think of it. Against all doubts, against all shadows, yet you are still here with us, trying to be the best warrior you can be. And again, I don’t mean by prowess! True that some people may disagree, but then again they did not know what you do—and vice versa,” she patted his back. “… Darn it, please bow so I can ruffle your hair.”

_“Your father is known as the lord of lionhearted courage for a reason…”_

_“Tell me more, Auntie!”_

_“Bed time, bed time! Your mother won’t like it.”_

_“But I will! Come oooon Auntie Lachesis.”_

_“Drink your milk and close your eyes.”_

_“My lady Aunt, I beseech you to enlighten me with the stories of Lord Father’s magnificence.”_

_“… By Hezul. Where did you learn those words again? … Aha. Alva!! You babysat today, didn’t you?”_

_“I beg your pardon, my lady! Master Ares was keen to see the library! Dear gods. First it was Lady Grahnye with the armory. Now Master Ares with the library…”_

“What a polite hair-assailant,” still he did, anyway. “And an honest one too, that is.”

“You smirked,” she lightly smacked his head.

“Ouch. Caught red-handed,” he simply chuckled.

“Then I take that you are… feeling better?”

“Mm-hmm. Mayhaps.”

“I wonder what prompted this sudden… um, restlessness?” she looked at him again. “Oh, right! Aah, did I distract you from your training?”

“I’m done for today.”

“Really? Or... hnnn, you know what, let’s get you a new target practice.”

“No, rabbit, I’m truly fine now. I am,” he pursed his lips, secretly wishing that she did not notice his eyes had never left her since he returned her to land on her own feet. “I don’t want to destroy the target again like prior, what if your face gets dirty?”

“Hnnn? Oh, I can always step away…”

“… What if not today?”

“No?”

“Yeah? And mind yourself too, rabbit—what if I like that face?”

“Eeeh?”

“Hmmm?”


End file.
